


Perihelion

by darkangel1211



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Beaded Plug, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Ankle Cuffs, Barebacking, Bath Sex, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bondage, But Sherlock's more than fine with it, Chains, Christmas Presents, Cock Rings, Come Eating, Come Shot, Comeplay, Coming Untouched, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dom!Sherlock, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Flavoured Lube, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Humiliation kink, John feels perverted, Kink Negotiation, Kneeling, M/M, Marking, Masochism, Masturbation, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, Obedience, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Padded Sawhorse, Paddling, Permission to speak, Phone Sex, Possessive Sherlock, Rimming, Sadism, Scenting, Sensory Deprivation, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Identity, Sexual Tension, Shaving, Sherlock has a dirty little secret, Sloppy Seconds, Spanking, St. Andrew's Cross, Sub!John, Subspace, Surprises, Sussex, Teabagging, That's not my phone, Vibrating Butt Plugs, Wall Sex, Wax Play, Wet & Messy, Whipping, Wrist Cuffs, Your phone's going off, Zipping, bottom!John, hot wax, safe sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 101,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel1211/pseuds/darkangel1211
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes on a new case where a local BDSM club are involved in human trafficking, with the club specialising in the sale, torture and eventual murder of submissives. </p><p>John isn't surprised in the slightest when he hears that Sherlock agreed to take the case but, when they go to the club under the guise of a Dom/sub relationship, he is surprised by how well Sherlock takes on the role of the Dominant male. </p><p>And how much he begins to like it.</p><p>Part Fifteen uploaded 02/11/2015</p><p>(Tags to be updated as the story progresses).</p><p>**ON HOLD - 30/03/2016 - due to RL circs**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.

It really shouldn't have been a big deal, or that was what John thought initially when Sherlock texted him to request his assistance with a new case and to come back to the flat as soon as possible, but he later admitted to himself that, considering this was Sherlock Holmes, he shouldn’t have expected anything less.

His shift at the clinic ended early, as it happened, so when he reached 221B and jogged up the stairs, the last thing he expected to see was his flatmate in his best outfit. It was the usual Spencer-Hart, but Sherlock had a tight-fitting black shirt instead of the white John was accustomed to seeing, again with the topmost buttons undone, with the whole outfit emphasizing the paleness of Sherlock's skin and the flawlessness of it. Not that this was unusual. Sherlock had a habit of making even the grubbiest outfit look fantastic, such was man's character with his self-confidence and well-deserved ego, but that wasn't the detail that made John pause in the entrance to the living room with a complete loss of what to say.

The man was sitting in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, with his riding crop draped over his knees.

“Ah, John,” Sherlock said, looking completely unfazed at John’s somewhat surprised expression. John found he couldn’t tear his eyes away from where Sherlock’s fingers were on the crop, one hand holding the base while the other slowly slid the tips of Sherlock’s fingers up the length of it before sliding them back down in what John was sure was just a check for damage or wear. Yes, that must be it. “The clinic let you go early. Good.”

“Err… Case?” John asked, swallowing around a dry throat that had seemingly come out of nowhere.

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet with all the fluid grace that only a Holmes could possess, holding his riding crop down by his side as he pulled out his mobile.  “Lestrade texted me. The body of a twenty-two year old Caucasian male was found down by the docks at half past two today. I’ve just returned from examining the body at the scene.”

“What, in that outfit?” John didn’t know exactly how much the suit cost, but he was certain it was more than his monthly salary. People didn’t go down to the _docks_ in something like that.

“Why not?” Sherlock said, barely glancing up from his mobile. “It’s December, John, I wasn’t about to go swimming in the Thames. It’s almost frozen over anyway.”  

“Right…So why do you have your riding crop with you?”

Sherlock finally looked up at John from where he’d been frantically pushing keys, his mouth quirking into a sort of half smirk. “Funnily enough, Lestrade wasn’t joking when he said I would find this one interesting.” He looked back down at his mobile and pressed some more keys before turning it around to show John what he’d pulled up, and John found himself blinking at some images several times before he realised they were close up shots of a very naked man’s abused backside. “These are some pictures I took of the body whilst I was there,” Sherlock went on to explain. “Underneath the strikes of the flogger there are fading bruise marks; you can see them there along the small of the back, the buttocks and thighs.” He took the mobile back from John and locked the screen before putting it back inside the pocket of his suit jacket.

John still didn’t understand what this had to do with Sherlock’s riding crop and it must have been all over his face when Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. “The bruises were made two days ago, but the flogging marks were made just before his death by a man who didn’t know what he was doing with the flogger, or, more likely, didn’t care how he was striking the victim. Yet the bruises have been placed on the body with deliberate care; it’s possible the man was a submissive because there is clear evidence of aftercare on the bruises and he wouldn’t have been able to look after them himself without some sort of assistance.

“Lestrade has already texted me the details of the man they’re interviewing; a Dom called Jeffrey Burkenright. He reported a missing person to the police shortly after the bruises were inflicted, probably because they had played a scene before parting company, and it was afterwards that the man was kidnapped. It’s obvious the Dom didn’t kill the victim though; the flogger strikes are all wrong compared to the bruising.”

John felt his mouth drop open at the end of Sherlock’s deductions, his brain faltering over Sherlock’s use of the words ‘Dom’, ‘submissive’, and ‘flogger’. “Ok… So why do you have your crop again?”

Sherlock looked at John as if seeing him for the first time, his confusion darting across his face. “Oh, didn’t I mention it? We’re going to the BDSM club where the man was last seen by his Dom before he disappeared. But it’s not just any BDSM club, John. It’s a _gentleman’s_ club!” The last was said with a gleam in Sherlock’s eye and that half-smirk again, showing just how amusing the detective was finding the whole ruddy fiasco.

“Of course we are,” John replied whilst making no such move to do so, instead wandering towards the kitchen to soothe his quickly developing urge for a cup of strong tea.

As he was pulling a cup of the cupboard and went to find the sugar, he couldn’t stop himself from startling again when he realised Sherlock was directly behind him. “Jeez! Sherlock!” John gasped, turning around to face the other man. “Honestly, one of these days I’m going to buy you a bloody collar with a bell on it!”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, intrigued. “Why would you want to do that?”

“So I can hear it when you’re coming!” John said before turning back to finish his tea. He flicked the switch on the kettle and went to retrieve the milk while he waited for it to boil; and felt his irritation rise when he heard the switch being put back into the ‘off’ position and the faint ‘chink’ of the cup being put away. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately, instead taking John’s arm by the crook of his elbow and guiding him to the stairs which would take them up to John’s room. “No time for tea,” Sherlock was saying before gently ushering John up the stairs. “Your outfit for the club has been laid out on your bed.”

“Oh, so you’re dressing me now?” John said, a hint of sarcasm dripping from his voice, but Sherlock didn’t even flinch.

“This particular club is the most prestigious of such establishments within a ten miles radius,” Sherlock drawled. “We can’t go there looking any less than our best and I’m afraid your jumpers and jeans just aren’t going to cut it. It shouldn’t be an issue, however, as the suit should be to your liking.”

“Why?” John asked, hesitating with his left hand on the banister. “What have you done to it?” The experiment with the itching powder wasn’t something John was going to forget in a hurry.

“Only taken into account your preference in fabric, colour and measurements,” Sherlock said, giving him another look of impatience. “Come on, quickly! We have to leave soon.”

John didn’t have an anything to say to that and obediently trudged up the stairs to get dressed, although he couldn’t resist sticking his middle finger up behind him because he just _knew_ that Sherlock was watching.

The sound of Sherlock’s laugh rang in John’s ears for a long time after he’d shut his bedroom door.

oOo 

Twenty minutes later, John found himself sat in the passenger seat of a rented Aston Martin, the DB9, in a gleaming charcoal colour that had looked simply stunning when the hire car employee dropped the car off outside their flat. His face had broken out into a wide smile, having never considered the fact that looking their best also meant having _the_ best on offer as well.

And Sherlock hadn’t been kidding when he said that they needed to look fantastic. The detective had bought him a suit that John had never seen before, coloured a lovely dove-grey with a pale blue shirt and light grey shoes which were a shade darker then the colour of the material. Checking the labels, John recognised all the brands from Sherlock’s own clothes; Spencer Hart, Yves Saint Laurent and Dolce & Gabbana all making an appearance, so when he finally put the clothes on, it was blatantly obvious that there had been no spared expense. The fabric clung to his frame in all the right places, making him look subtly taller and also more streamlined, something he had trouble with due to his stocky build and, as Sherlock had said, the suit had been especially tailor-made to John’s specifications (even down to the shoe size). It had left John wondering when Sherlock had gotten his measurements before he realised that Sherlock had barged in on him more than once in the bathroom when he’d been completely naked. After the Irene Adler case, he was no longer surprised at how Sherlock managed it.  

Sherlock must have noticed that it was no trouble at all for John to leave the flat when the car arrived, undeniably excited about getting the chance to drive an Aston and feeling like he’d woken up on Christmas morning. And more than a little put out when he realised he wouldn’t be driving it.

“It’s not proper,” Sherlock said, but that didn’t really explain anything.

“What do you mean ‘proper’?” John asked, trying very hard not to act like the two year old he was pretty sure he’d been when he found out he wasn’t driving the car.

Sherlock glanced at him from the road for a split second, the look no less powerful for only having half of Sherlock’s focus on him. “It isn’t proper behaviour for a Dom to be driven around by their sub. Upsets the power dynamics too much, or so they would have us believe. Imbeciles.”

John felt his mouth drop open with Sherlock’s words, feeling a chill up his spine although the car’s air-con had been adjusted to a steady twenty-two degrees centigrade to combat the cold December air. “Excuse me?”

Sherlock stopped the car at a red light, pressing the handbrake release and putting the car into neutral before looking at John directly. “We need to have assigned roles to be able to infiltrate the club,” he said slowly, as though he were speaking to a child. “They’re not going to let us in the door if we don’t have the roles planned beforehand. I need to be the dominant partner in the relationship because I need to question the people there and I wouldn’t be able to do that as a submissive. It would draw too much attention.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me this before you decided to take us to a BDSM club?” John asked, the tension evident in the way his voice had lowered. “Tell me, Sherlock, does this mean that I’m going to be spread-eagled over a barrel before the night is out, or is that just the warm-up?”

Sherlock scoffed, resuming his driving again when the lights turned green. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, turning down another road and pulling into a car park that looked like it was for private use. “As your Dom, I will have a responsibility to ensure that you are kept safe and happy throughout the course of the evening. It does work both ways, of course. You will need to respond to any order I give you without question, but I won’t ask you to do anything that will break our cover.”      

“So not that much left out then,” John grumbled, staring out the side window of the car in favour over glaring daggers into the side of the detective’s head. “And I suppose it hasn’t escaped your attention that I am one hundred percent straight, meaning that I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in pretending to be your sexual partner? Submissive or not?”

Sherlock reversed the car into a space that faced the entrance of the club and stopped the engine, unclipping his seat belt and reaching across to cup John’s face in one hand, urging John to meet his eyes. John barely stopped himself from pulling out of the hold in surprise, just spotting a group of people in his peripheral vision that looked like they were headed to the same place they were. From the sweep of their shoulders and the tilts in their heads, the group clearly had no qualms about looking into the car to see what they were up to and John realised Sherlock was already getting them into character. “Fancy giving me a little warning next time?” John said as he reached up with his left hand to cup Sherlock’s where it was pressed against his face.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock said, boldly pulling John closer to him so their faces were almost touching.

John felt his whole body tense, unused to the proximity with the other man and very uncomfortable because of it. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep up the pretence of being Sherlock’s lover if Sherlock tried to kiss him and John had his principles. A straight man didn’t go around kissing his very male flatmate, even if it was for a case. 

“John, I need you to trust me,” Sherlock said, his thumb making a board sweep of John’s lower lip and finally pulling his hand away from John’s face when the group moved into the building itself.

_Otherwise this won’t work_ was the unspoken part of that sentence, but the words flowed through John’s mind as loudly as though Sherlock had spoken them. He licked his lips and tried not to think about where Sherlock’s thumb had been just now. “So what do you need me to do? How are we going to stop them kidnapping the submissives?”

Sherlock didn’t let him down, launching into all the details he deemed necessary before they prepared to enter the club. 

oOo

Sherlock was a man of his word, John was relieved to see, so by the time they made their way inside, John only had to endure a few leering looks from the Doms who were undoubtedly single, with the eyes being more appreciative from the Doms who were already in relationships and had their subs kneeling down beside them.   

When they walked through the front entrance to the building, John could safely say that it wasn’t anything like what he’d been expecting for an establishment that catered to the elite of the BDSM class. Rather than people being kept behind bars having pain inflicted upon them, or finding individuals swinging from the ceiling in harnesses, he found that the atmosphere was more civilised than he’d initially given them credit for. Sherlock hadn’t overdressed them in the slightest, considering almost every person John saw had some sort of suit on or was dressed in a smart-casual way, and the people themselves were smiling, conversing in small groups and around what Sherlock described as ‘art’. Submissive men and women who were bound, gagged or both, all in various ways in several states of undress, all straining to be admired by their Masters and the Dominants that also viewed them.

Although the colour was just what John expected; almost everything he could see was a shade of red or completely black. He guessed some things were more traditional than others and colour was no exception, with the owners of the club going as far as polishing the wood of the bar to a shade more reminiscent of the black cherry so it matched the rest of the décor, rather than the pale oak that the wood would have been originally (or so he was reliably informed by Sherlock).

Sherlock’s choice of colour for their own clothes also appeared to hold special significance for these people. Most of the subs that weren’t on display were dressed in much the same way as their Masters, but it looked like the colours were generally lighter with a few exceptions. Pastel shades in comparison to the black decorating their owners. John wondered if it was a reflection of the Master’s taste in partner’s or in the colours themselves and decided he really didn’t want to know the answer to that.  

As they proceeded to a corner of the very large room, John had to keep reminding himself to keep his eyes averted from any people that they passed, playing the role of the passive, obedient sub the way Sherlock had told him to, and having to rely on Sherlock’s sense of direction with only one of Sherlock’s hands on the small of his back to guide him. The club itself wasn’t busy; it was still early, just gone six in the evening, but that didn’t mean it was deserted, and already the noises of the room began to filter their way through the fog in John’s head. The sounds were coming from the centre of the room specifically, the place where a small stage had been set up, and, before John had averted his eyes, he’d seen a young woman being tied up by a much older man to a large wooden X, a man who seemed to have the single-minded intent in showing off his prize.

Though his methods of showing her off certainly weren’t ways that John would have considered treating any partners that he’d had previously.

The rhythmic sounds of bare flesh being paddled seemed much louder now, with every other snap of the leather-covered item being accompanied by the cry of the woman enduring it. No, ‘enduring’ was the wrong word, John decided when he’d been given permission by Sherlock to look at the stage. ‘Enjoying’ was far more apt a word to describe the look the woman had on her face, although it was streaked with black tears from where her mascara had run and the cheeks of her arse were a bright red, making John wince with every strike even though the woman was begging her Dom for more by the end of it. 

In short, the whole experience had left John feeling rather out of his depth, but when he risked a glance at Sherlock, the other man looked as composed as ever, completely unflustered by the activity going on around them.

“It’s always nice to see new faces,” John heard another man say, and saw it when the person’s shoes came into his line of sight. “Is this your man?” The question had been directed at Sherlock.

John felt Sherlock’s hand sweep across his back to his opposite shoulder, placing his fingers where the other man would be able to see them. “Can there be any doubt?” Sherlock said, leaning close so that when he spoke John could feel the breath coming from Sherlock’s mouth against the nape of his neck. He struggled not to shiver with the sensation of it, but had the niggling thought that that was the exact reaction Sherlock was going for.

_It’s just an act, it’s just an act._ John repeated the lines over and over in his head while he gave himself permission to respond to Sherlock’s voice, his frame trembling slightly under Sherlock’s fingers, and felt more than saw Sherlock smile in response.

“Hmmm, yes,” the other Dom said with his appreciation evident from his tone. “He knows the sound of his Master’s voice.”

“Yes. He does.” Sherlock sounded totally assured of that fact, despite it being a blatant lie, but the confidence Sherlock was displaying was enough to convince the other Dom of their relationship together.

“Is this your first time to a social event?” the man asked Sherlock, his own sub coming by to kneel at his Master’s feet and giving John a small smile when they made brief eye contact before he dutifully lowered his eyes to the floor. John kept half an ear open so he would hear when Sherlock gave him a command, but while he was being ignored he decided to pay closer attention to the only other submissive he’d seen up close since they arrived.

The submissive was a young man with the kind of look that you would see on a surfer in the States; the expensive cut on his blond hair and faint tan on his body made him look more mature than he actually was, for he couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, but his demeanour was so meek and pleasant to watch that John found himself wondering how he could have found such a state of mind while being dominated by another man. Obviously, it could just be that he was gay and enjoyed the attention that his Dom showered him with, but from looking at him John guessed that there was something more, but for the life of him he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was.

“May I take a look at him?” The other Dom’s voice rang sharp in his ears, and John fought to remain still and calm while Sherlock seemed to take forever in answering.

“I’m afraid he’s not quite ready for showing off,” Sherlock replied, rubbing his fingers into John’s shoulder in what was meant to be a soothing gesture as the detective automatically picked up the signals of John’s feelings towards being handled by another Dom. “We’re both relatively new to this game, you see. There are some areas which we’re still under the process of discovering about each other and I need to know how he reacts in _every way_ until I can show him at his best.”

The Dom chuckled. “Of course. It would be a shame to see him at any less than his full potential. Perhaps, when you are both ready, you would be willing to share your relationship with the people here? It would be marvellous to watch.” Before Sherlock could respond to the other man’s suggestion, the Dom carried on speaking. “In fact, my boy here is due to have a private showing in one of the smaller booths of this club. I’m sure it would please him greatly to show your man a thing or two of how it’s done. You said it yourself, you’re both relatively new to this lifestyle. Maybe some of the things he can show you will make the transitions easier.”

John felt Sherlock’s fingers slide from his shoulder to underneath his chin, tilting his head up marginally until he could see Sherlock’s eyes. The intimate touch to his jaw was threatening to become too much for him, having only ever done the move himself with a woman he was intimate with, but somehow he kept it together. _Remember the case. Remember the lives you’ll be saving._

“Well, John? What do you think? Would you like to see them do a show for us?” Sherlock’s voice was deceptively curious, but when John looked at the other man’s eyes, he could see that Sherlock was giving him the opportunity to back out from it. He said he didn’t want to put John in any situation that he couldn’t handle and he meant it. Yet, at the same time, John could see it in Sherlock’s eyes that this could be the make or break that they’d been searching for since they arrived. They needed to find out everything they could about this club while they were here, the private rooms being no exception, and it seemed that invites were very rare. They wouldn’t get this opportunity again.

Something inside of John steeled itself, and in the calmest voice he could muster, he said his first words of the evening. “Yes, Sherlock.”  

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> Warnings: Graphic description of a BDSM scene between two men ahead; proceed with caution ;-)

Both John and Sherlock quickly found themselves escorted to one of the private rooms that the Dom had spoken of; they were taken up a flight of stairs that were at the back of the main hall and into a large corridor that branched out into several smaller ones as they followed the Dom and his sub.

When they reached the private room, John saw that the walls were a deep red colour again, the same as the main hall downstairs, and there were heavy crimson curtains covering the windows to allow for privacy. The room itself had enough space to comfortably fit a double bed in it with extra to spare, but instead it had a small platform at the back (which was actually the front, technically) and there were at least ten chairs all facing towards the improvised stage. John was vaguely surprised when they entered to find that there were other people there as well, although he couldn’t tell if they were all couples or not, and in front of them was a padded bench, a bit like a sawhorse, but this one had leather cuffs attached to the four legs at the bottom. It took him all of two seconds to realise what the cuffs were for and it was only Sherlock’s hand at his back that prevented him from moving backwards so he could leave the room, leave the entire building in fact, and never look back.

Sherlock must have sensed his unease because he leant his head close to John’s ear and whispered, “Steady,” while keeping his hand firm on John’s back to stop him from leaving. To anyone looking at them, it would seem that Sherlock was just telling John to contain his excitement, hence his choice of the word ‘steady’; something that would not seem out of place to the people they were with, but John wasn’t sure if this was something he wanted to see happen in front of him. It had been bad enough with the woman on the wooden cross, which Sherlock had briefly informed him was called a ‘Saint Andrews Cross’, when all he’d wanted to do was go up and untie her because, as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t the way to treat a lady. No matter how much she’d been begging for it. 

So when the sub he’d seen kneeling from before willingly took off his shirt and went over to the sawhorse at his Dom’s command to lay his body over it, face down, John felt his face flush hot and his skin become slick with a cold sweat that had nothing to do with fever. “Sherlock?” he whispered, allowing some of his worry to leak into his voice and hoping that the other man would pick up on it.

He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him, sweeping across his face and down his body, before Sherlock took them further into the room to a set of chairs that hadn’t been taken. They were further away from the sawhorse here, but the view was no less inhibited, giving John and Sherlock a clear line of sight that allowed them to see the sub’s face and, when his trousers were removed, the ring that had been put on him at the base of his genitals. John couldn’t stop the sharp inhale of breath he took when he saw the cock-ring, eyes wide as he watched the Dom secure the blonde’s wrists and ankles to the wood via the cuffs, and when John averted his eyes from the scene he realised his legs were trembling.

Sherlock pushed John down by his shoulders into one of the chairs, taking the seat next to him and pulling them closer together so he could keep one hand on John’s shoulder in a possessive gesture. “Keep silent until I tell you otherwise,” Sherlock said in a low voice, which wasn’t low enough as far as John was concerned because the people just next to them, a woman with a man collared at her feet, were still close enough to hear Sherlock speak, but he didn’t question the order.

Once everyone who was coming to the show was seated, John heard the sound of the door closing behind them and then the Dom who’d invited them stepped onto the stage behind his sub, the people sitting on the chairs audibly quietening down when they saw that the scene was about to begin. It was the first time John had seen the dominant male in person and everything, from the way his dark hair fell rakishly into his eyes to the way he carried himself, spoke of a man who was in charge.

Slowly, the man took off his jacket and draped it over the back of one of the empty chairs, reaching for the cuffs of his shirt and undoing them before working on the buttons down the front of it. Each one was slipped through its holder, exposing more toned, taut flesh that the subs in the room responded to in the minute tensing of their fingers, the way they bit their lips with their Doms whispering in their ears. The man didn’t take his shirt all the way off, un-tucking it from his dress trousers and allowing the material to flow about his frame as he walked to a small side table outside of the view of the bound blonde, pausing to pursue the implements he would no doubt use.

After what seemed like an eternity to John, the Dom picked up three items; a blindfold, a leather paddle, and a pair of nipple clamps attached together by a rather heavy looking chain. John’s eyes flicked to the chest of the man bent over the sawhorse and saw that the surface area was only just big enough to stop him from falling over either side. From the angle that Sherlock had chosen for them, John could see that the nipple was exposed on one side so it was reasonable to assume that the other nipple would also be uncovered, free for the other man to torment and abuse as he saw fit.

But not before he put the blindfold over the bound man’s eyes, of course.

The blonde gasped sharply when the blindfold was tugged over his eyes, taking away one of the primary senses that he would have used to keep himself appraised of the scene he was partaking in and leaving him with the other, more basic senses. Touch… the feel of his Dom’s hands on his flesh. Sound… John vividly remembered the noise the paddle made on the buttocks of the woman on the stage in the main room. This close, how would it differ? Taste… the sweat beading on his upper lip, his body helplessly perspiring with his excitement and the exertion from maintaining a single position for a long period of time.

_Oh my God, what am I doing here?_

After the blindfold was secured, the Dom swept a possessive thumb over the lips of the blonde, the other man unable to help his needs as his mouth tried to capture the thumb to suck on it, his Dom cruelly denying him that pleasure and giving him another instead; the sharp pinch of fingers on his nipples, the tips of nails tormenting the sensitive flesh until the blonde was whimpering and visibly shaking on the sawhorse, his cock jerking with each pinch and twist.

John shut his eyes against the scene, his own bottom lip coming beneath his teeth when he heard the first cry from the blonde as a clamp was secured into place, his own hands gripping his knees and wholly unable to stop his shaking. He couldn’t have timed it any worse, opening his eyes just as the Dom put the other clamp on the second nipple, the one John could see, before tugging on the chain which hung underneath the sawhorse and making the blonde groan thickly at the sensation.

It was only that at this point that John realised the state of his own cock, which, with his own rising alarm, had become a warm, thick weight in his boxers. Hyperaware of the pulse of blood in the organ, each beat of his heart matching an answering throb in his trousers, John felt his face flush with shame but wasn’t able to stop his body from responding to the outside stimulus. _God, please don’t let Sherlock see this._

With the sub sucking in deep breaths through his mouth, his Dom leant down to his ear so his lips were almost brushing the lobe of it and spoke into the awed silence of the people around them. “You’re doing very well, Eric,” he breathed, the words clear and carrying to every individual in the room although they were meant for Eric alone. The blonde sobbed once behind his blindfold, a single tear glinting as it dripped from behind the material and trailed down his cheek. “So very well,” the other man continued, taking hold of the chain that held the clamps between his fingers and tugging on it again, his dark eyes watching as Eric’s body struggled to remain balanced on the padding of the sawhorse even as it tried to balance the pain with pleasure. 

John almost startled out of his seat when he felt fingers touch his left hand, which was still clasping his own knee, and when he looked down he saw that Sherlock’s right hand had dropped down to touch John’s flesh lightly and without pressure. When he looked up from the hand to Sherlock’s face he felt his mouth drop open with the look in Sherlock’s eyes, the colour of the detective’s irises having darkened to a deep blue around the rims of his expanded pupils, and his focus so intense that John felt himself tremble again but from a completely different source.

The fingers on John’s hand slipped up the sensitive flesh until they reached the cuff of his shirt where they slipped underneath the material, the pad of Sherlock’s index finger effortlessly finding John’s pulse-point; which meant, when the first strike of the paddle resounded in the room, the detective could feel it when John’s pulse raced in response to it.

“Oh God,” John whispered, the words tumbling from his mouth when the second strike from the paddle echoed in his ears, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from Sherlock’s eyes which had pinned him into place, not even when Eric began to cry out with each strike as they increased in intensity.

“John…” Sherlock whispered his name in return, his gaze drinking in John’s responses even as John tried to fight them, tried to halt the liquid fire in his groin which only demanded more, faster, harder, _make it hurt_ …

“Please, Master,” Eric pleaded from his position, the chains rattling as his body jerked with each hit of the paddle. “Please let me come, please…”

When John looked back at the stage, he no longer saw Eric tied down, helpless and writhing on the bench as he begged for completion; in his mind he saw himself restrained, could almost feel the burn of the leather on the cheeks of his arse as the paddle landed on his flesh; unable to find his release due to the cock-ring but wanting the pain more, wanting the heat and the tension caused by his Dom.

And when the Dom finally granted the permission Eric so desperately wanted, undoing the clasp on the cock-ring and saying, “Come for me,” in his ear, John didn’t hear the Dom’s voice… In his mind, it was Sherlock.

Just Sherlock. 

oOo

Less than two days after their more than memorable visit to the BDSM club, Sherlock had solved the case surrounding the kidnapping of the submissives and the people responsible for their trafficking were safely behind bars. Sherlock had been buzzing with energy since the case ended, but John had been rather subdued by the end of it, his mind out of sorts since his experience in the private booth with Eric and his Dom and completely lacking any coherent ability to pull himself out of it.

The one godsend John could be thankful for was that if Sherlock noticed his flatmate’s behaviour, which he most likely did, he refrained from mentioning it, but it didn’t stop John’s subconscious mind from imagining the scene all over again in glorious Technicolor, albeit with two very different men.

 _God_ , the thought of Sherlock standing over him, skin flushed with the effort of hitting John with well-practised strokes and his breath panting from between his lips, eyes ablaze in his sockets as he hungrily drank in the image John presented to him. A pliant, obedient body for him to mark and claim so everyone would know who he belonged to…

John forced himself to concentrate on what he was doing, his fingers poised over the keys of his laptop as he tried to finish his latest blog entry of ‘The Forced Submissives’, but his mind was refusing to provide him with any detail of the case which he needed to complete it. It kept reminding him of other things which were no less important, like the fact that he was _straight_ and _not submissive_ in any way, shape or form, although another part of his brain, the sensorial side, kept butting in and saying _you had a hard-on, John. You had one thinking about your flatmate hitting you. **Hurting** you. _

It was becoming more difficult to shut that voice up but John gave himself a mental pat on the back whenever he managed it, counting it as a victory over the primal part of his brain and a triumph for the side that had previous experience and logic on its side, both hard-wearing allies and ones who were very good at counter attacks.

With a huff of frustration John pushed his laptop away from himself, standing up from the desk and stretching his back out before walking to the kitchen to get a glass of cool water. With his mind the way it was, there wasn’t a hope in hell that he would be able to finish the blog before the night was through; it was something he would just have to tackle tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice came from behind him and when John turned to look at the other man he saw that Sherlock was dressed in his blue dressing gown (which had been done up at the waist) and faded pyjama bottoms, leaning against  the wall just outside of the entry to the kitchen. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Trust Sherlock to jump straight to the point. “Have I?” John said, trying for ignorance and failing spectacularly at it given the scowl that Sherlock gave him.

“Yes, you have.” Sherlock pushed himself up from the wall and crossed his arms, coming towards John and daring him with his eyes to move away, to prove him right.

John did no such thing, knowing a challenge when he saw it.    

“It’s because of the other night,” Sherlock said, not bothering to phrase it as a question. “When we saw Eric and his Dom. You’ve been acting strangely since then and you’re not talking to me. Is it because you’re embarrassed?”

“Jeez,” John hissed, putting his cup down on the side and wiping a hand over his eyes, inexplicably tired. “You’re not going to let this go are you?” Sherlock didn’t answer him, which was an answer in itself because of course he wasn’t going to just ‘let it go’, not when it was so much more interesting to keep prodding. “Yes, ok,” John said finally, pulling his hand away from his face to look Sherlock in the eye. “I was unbelievably embarrassed and, to top it off, I was harder than I ever have been in my entire life. Happy?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John’s question before frowning. “Why would I be happy about it? John, your body reacted to the external stimuli it was experiencing, nothing more, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t see why you’ve made such a big deal out of it.”

“Because it’s not me!” John snapped, his brows clenching on his forehead with his rise in temper. “I’m not into that, never have been and never will!”

Sherlock’s eyes hardened, his mouth thinning into a taut line before he marched towards John and took a hold of his wrist without any sense of propriety. Neither man said anything; John was too shocked at Sherlock’s blatant invasion of his personal space and Sherlock was focussed on something else entirely; the ‘something else’ being the pulse in John’s wrist, the grip the same as the night of the BDSM club and too absorbed in using the concentration required to measure the rhythmic beat, beat, beat that mirrored the thumping of John’s heart.

And, damn it all to hell, with Sherlock this close to him John was only thinking of one thing and he couldn’t tear himself away from it even if he’d wanted to. His mind’s eye saw the flush on Sherlock’s face when the other man realised how much the bondage scene was affecting him; could see the way Sherlock’s own eyes reflected that arousal and need that John was so sure hadn’t been just an echo of his own confused and frustrated sexual desires. That, and the rush of shame and anger he felt at the betrayal of his own body, yearning for something that he had never even thought of before and, now that he had witnessed it, wanting to experience it with the same intensity that they’d seen through the power-play which had been completely unplanned for. 

Sherlock turned his head towards John’s own briefly, locking eyes with him and giving John the heady impression that he’d seen and heard every thought in his own head, before murmuring a single word. “Liar.” Abruptly, John felt the hand at his wrist come away from his skin, leaving behind a tingling sensation that took a while to fade, and all the while Sherlock was still talking to him.

“You can lie to yourself to your heart’s content, John, but you cannot, no, you _will not_ lie to me.” Sherlock stepped away from him, walking towards the exit that would take him to his own room and pausing to look back at John. “When you’re ready to discuss this in the way an adult would, you know where to find me, because there is one thing I can promise you, my dear doctor. None of this is happening unless you ask me for it.”

John didn’t need Sherlock to elaborate what ‘this’ was, swallowing around the lump in his throat and nodding stiffly when he realised that his flatmate was waiting for a response. Apparently Sherlock was satisfied with that, turning and walking to his room, the sound of his bedroom door shutting loud in the space that he’d left behind. 

 _To be continued_      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read and shown their support for this story! I'm thrilled you're enjoying it and believe me when I say I'm as excited as you are! The fun is just starting!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.

Contrary to what John thought would happen over the next week, Sherlock proved (somewhat remarkably) that when he said it was John’s decision to make the first move, he actually meant it. John didn’t hear a peep out of the other man when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom the next morning, other than his customary demand for tea, before he flopped down onto the sofa and flicked through the morning newspaper to look for any interesting reports that might lead to a new case.

That didn’t mean that there was anything interesting to read, however, and the newspaper had soon been flung across the room without so much as a by-your-leave directed to John who, incidentally, had wanted to read the paper after Sherlock was finished with it.

Eventually, when Sherlock was lucky enough to find a case that was above a seven, John found he was taken along as normal and used as Sherlock’s sounding board for his deductions. If Sherlock was feeling particularly generous during those cases, he actively encouraged John to make his own judgements on the crime scene despite Lestrade’s misgivings and, if Sherlock said, “Excellent, John,” in a way that made John flush under the collar of his jacket, the detective had the grace not to mention it.

It seemed that, as far as Sherlock was concerned, everything was back to normal; as though they’d never seen the bondage scene at the club; as though Sherlock hadn’t felt the physical proof of John’s excitement from the beat of his heart, or heard the strangled whisper John had made when the noise from the paddle made his cock twitch.

Having said that, John knew that his own perception of reality was very different from the detective’s and forgetting the whole experience was far more difficult than John could readily admit to. When they came back from the club the first time, John had walked into the living room and sat on his chair with a heavy sigh, trying to flush the adrenaline from his system and delete the entire evening from his memory. And, up to a point, he’d been succeeding.

Only to have all his efforts wasted when he saw that Sherlock had left his riding crop on his own chair, the handle resting on the padding of the seat while the fold of leather at its tip was pointing to the mirror above the fireplace. John had berated himself quite badly at his foresight to stoke the fire before they left, hoping to have just a nice, warm flat to come into once they were finished and instead feeling another hot flush come over him when he saw how the firelight bathed the leather in front of him. It could have been his state of mind at the time, but the way the firelight had been on the leather… It was almost like the light had been caressing it. And when the snap of the logs sounded particularly loud, John imagined that that was just what the leather would sound like if it made contact on his skin...

It was only when he’d realised what direction his thoughts had taken that he told himself to get a grip and go to bed, for it had gone midnight by the time Sherlock had finished his investigation at the club, but it had still taken the draw of a large scotch to help him get to sleep. Even it was restless in the end, resulting in him tossing and turning on his pillow throughout the night before waking up and finding his sheets soaked in a cold sweat, his panting breaths resounding in his ears and his cock a rigid, throbbing reminder of the turn his dreams had taken.

The morning after the first night, when John had finally worked up the courage to leave his room, Sherlock had asked John if he’d had any nightmares. “You were quite loud last night,” Sherlock had elaborated. “I briefly considered coming up to wake you.”

John had nodded dumbly to Sherlock’s flash of concern, agreeing that it had been another nightmare, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock needed to know what the subject matter had been. Not when the ghosts of half remembered sensations still danced across John’s skin; the slow drag of a finger across his neck and collar bone; the scratch of nails on the inner skin of his thighs, making them twitch and reflexively open in the welcoming gesture for more. God help him, the smooth tenor of a voice much deeper than his own whispering lewd, filthy things in his ear, each word a declaration of praise, of promises made between French silk sheets and the bite of leather around his wrists, holding him in place for the man who wanted him to ache and hurt and beg for them until his throat was raw from it and his flesh was a tapestry of hidden sobs just waiting to be voiced. His dream-self had known how much it was going to hurt, the slightest touch from a fingertip to any part of his body, and still he’d begged for it, unable to see because of the blindfold but _needing it_ , like his lungs needed air and without it he would die, suffocated by his own desire.   

It had taken a force of will that John had spent the rest of the day honing and harnessing to get right, but eventually it came to the point where he could listen to Sherlock speak and not have to worry about unwanted erections at inopportune of times.

During the subsequent week there was just one thing left over from that night that John hadn’t been able to vanquish no matter how much he tried (except for the dreams which were being stubbornly persistent), and that was his own awakened curiosity. Without his permission, his thoughts often wandered back to the scene between Eric and his Dom, remembering how Eric had responded to the bite of the clamps on his nipples and the cries of his voice as the paddle turned the colour of his arse to a bright shade of red. He remembered the way Sherlock’s hand had felt on the small of his back, a comforting presence in a world that Sherlock understood more than John did, and a possessive touch on his body that, when he thought about, left a warm feeling at the base of his spine that had nothing to do with the heat left over from when Sherlock’s hand had been there.  

So, almost a week after their visit to the club, John had his laptop opened on his legs and was hesitantly researching a new topic using the Google search engine. He typed four letters into the search bar, each letter a capital, and when he was finished John stared at the screen for another minute, swallowing around the frog in his throat before he hit ‘enter’. The results came up almost immediately, with the search for ‘BDSM’ displaying about one hundred and seventy-eight million links and leaving John with a fluttery feeling in his chest, before he clicked on the first link that had come up to show Wikipedia offering a very helpful description of what BDSM is to the outsider:

****

**_‘BDSM_ ** _represents a continuum of practices and expressions, both erotic and non-erotic, involving restraint, sensory stimulation, role-playing, and a variety of interpersonal dynamics. Given the wide range of practices, some of which may be engaged in by people who don't consider themselves as practicing BDSM, inclusion in the BDSM community and/or subculture is usually dependent on self-identification and shared experience. Interest in BDSM can range from one-time experimentation to a lifestyle, and some debate has begun over whether a BDSM or kink sexual identity also constitutes a form of sexual orientation. ’_

Ok, that much John understood, having had one girlfriend in his life who liked having her arse swatted a few times when he took her from behind, but Wikipedia didn’t have exactly what it was he was looking for. In all fairness, he didn’t actually know what it was he was searching for as he had no familiarity whatsoever in being a sub. He could only draw on his experience of what he’d seen and heard at the club, but even than it was hard to grasp that his body was into this, that a primal part of his mind was responding to it.

After pursuing several websites, John decided that there had to be better ways to understand what it was he was after, if he was really after anything at all, because he was truly shocked by what he’d seen on the websites and they left a sick feeling in his stomach rather than the burning heat that he’d had when he watched Eric being bound and blindfolded over the sawhorse.

He looked at the time, seeing that it was only just seven in the evening, and set about getting ready to leave Baker Street for a few hours.

oOo

Thirty minutes later, John stepped out of the taxi after paying the driver and walked up to the BDSM club that Sherlock and he had visited just last week, self-consciously checking his freshly ironed shirt and pressed trousers to ensure that they had no creases as he neared the main entrance. The guards standing outside the door gave him a brief once-over, checking his ID (security had been stepped up by the new owners when they realised submissives were still in high demand by the wrong people) and motioning him inside once they recognised who he was.

Things had barely changed since the last time he was here, John saw, and he quickly set about scanning the area for the individuals he was seeking. It was a gamble coming back here; he knew that because the two people he was looking for might not even be here. He knew that he had to try to find them though, preferably before he had a nervous breakdown.

Looking around the main hall, he knew he definitely wasn’t comfortable in this environment, _‘too green,’_ his mind accused, and, without Sherlock to back him up, he felt cut adrift amongst the people who looked like they were from another world altogether. He felt he couldn’t go to the bar because, in his world, that meant you were either with someone, waiting for someone or wanted to pick someone up for the night, and he wasn’t really any of those, nor was he really sure just what rules applied here. But standing out in the middle of the room would look ridiculous, just as it would if he wandered around aimlessly. In the end, he opted to lean against one of the pillars overlooking the stage, his gaze sweeping the area occasionally but not trying to make direct eye-contact with anyone.

As it happened, John didn’t need to worry about finding Eric or his Dom because, coincidentally, they found him first. Eric was the first to spot him, his mouth tilting up in a smile from where he was kneeled on the floor before he discreetly got his Dom’s attention, pointing out John to the other man. The Dom looked back at Eric after singling John out, perhaps telling him to stay put, and excused himself from the people he was in conversation with before coming over to where John was standing.

“Hello again,” the man said once he was close enough, offering out his hand for John to shake. “We were never properly introduced before, were we? My name is William Dawson but I prefer ‘Will’.”  

John found the man’s grip to be strong, as he suspected it would be, but it made him think of other things that felt inappropriate despite where he was. “Hello,” he replied, unsure of how to address the other man and deciding to keep his greeting short. Will must have sensed it, John’s unease, because he looked around the room for a moment and John realised that the other man was looking for Sherlock. “He isn’t here,” John said, drawing Will’s attention back to himself. “I came on my own.”

Will frowned. “That’s unusual behaviour for a submissive,” he said to John, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers. “Does your Dom know you’re here?”

“No,” John said, inwardly wincing when the Will’s face darkened. “Look, it’s not like that, it’s…” He paused, more than a little frustrated. “The man I came with wasn’t my Dom. I’m not even a submissive; I’ve never had a Dom.”

Will smiled, his face lightening with John words. “Well, you certainly gave us a different impression when you were last here, Dr Watson, but I hear that Mr Holmes can be quite the actor when he needs to be.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture when he saw John looked a little shocked. “Dr Watson… John, may I call you John? The news of your success in preventing the kidnapping of the submissives here didn’t stay silent for long, you know. Everyone at this establishment who has half a brain cell knows who you are because they read your Blog, although I’ve yet to understand why you’re here. You can’t really play with the animals; they do bite on occasion.”

It took John a moment to understand that Will was referring to the people at the club and smiled, if a bit awkwardly. “Look, um, you’re right that I’ve got no idea what I’m doing and Sherlock doesn’t even know I’m here…” He paused again, running a hand through his hair and deciding to just come out with it. “It’s about the night that you invited us to your show; the scene with your sub, Eric. I wanted to talk to you about that, if it’s ok. With you and Eric. I don’t know what the protocol is or anything but I don’t even know what it is I’m looking for…” John trailed off, not able to finish his sentence because the words just wouldn’t come.

Will held up a hand to stop John from saying anything further, smiling a little in amusement. “There is no protocol, John, you needn’t worry. It’s perfectly all right to ask questions and I’m sure Eric will be happy to answer any that you have. I’m assuming that you have specific questions regarding the role of a submissive rather than a Dominant?”

“I … don’t know.” John rubbed a hand over his eyes, suddenly wishing that he hadn’t come here. “I don’t know why I’m even here.”

He felt a hand take hold of his arm and pull his hand away from his eyes, looking up to see Will looking at him in earnest. “It’s ok, John. We’ve all been where you are.” Will looked behind him and motioned to Eric who’d been sitting there watching them, and John could only stare when the young man raised himself to his feet with a grace that he’d only ever seen Sherlock use. Eric didn’t waste any time, coming up to them swiftly but with an the air of the unhurried individual; one who took as much time as needed to get the job done properly without becoming flustered.

When Eric reached Will’s side, Will raised his hand and placed it around the back of Eric’s neck, the grip soft, but possessive, and making Eric relax almost completely into it. John didn’t realise that he’d held his breath when he watched Will place his hand on his sub, and was completely unprepared for the pang of longing he felt at seeing the claim of ownership, reminiscent of the hand Sherlock had placed at his back so long ago, but somehow it lacked the same intensity.

The two men didn’t say anything through the contact; they didn’t need to, John realised with a sharp intake of breath. Everything was there for people to see if they knew what to look for; the way Eric leaned subtly towards Will, as though he was helplessly attracted to him by more than the physical side of their relationship; the way Will responded to it, brushing his lips along Eric’s temple and maintaining the clasp around the back of his neck. The bond between the two men made John feel uncomfortable because of the intimacy of it, he realised. They knew each other inside and out, how to respond to each other’s needs, and the adoration that Eric looked at Will with couldn’t be denied. The feel of his Master close to him, the scent of him, the overwhelming need to serve and be served; opposite ends of the spectrum, somehow made to meet harmoniously somewhere in-between.

“What do you see, John?” Will asked, his lips still pressed lightly to Eric’s head. “Where do you see yourself?” Before John could answer him, Will turned his head so he was looking into John’s eyes. “Do you see Sherlock beneath you, waiting for your every command, your every breath?” Using a hand gesture that only Will and Eric could have known, Eric knelt once again to his knees in front of them and bowed his head with his hands crossed at his wrists in front of him. Will began to walk around him slowly, letting Eric feel his Dom’s eyes on his body, obedient, an open receptacle for the will of his Master.

“What do you see?” Will repeated softly, brushing a hand through Eric’s hair and bringing it to rest on the back of Eric’s neck.

John soon realised that Will was asking him a direct question, and when Will undid the first few buttons and pulled away the collar of the shirt Eric was wearing, John almost felt his knees buckle beneath him. Under the collar, and just visible on Eric’s back when John peered over for a closer look, there were whip marks. John couldn’t tell what instrument had caused them, but the lines that he saw were vivid in the lighting of the club, and Eric didn’t try to restrain the whimper he gave when Will brushed a finger over one of them.

“He asked me for every single one,” Will murmured, doing up Eric’s shirt again and looking back at John with fervour in his eyes. “And I gave them to him without hesitation or regret.”

“Oh God,” John said, his voice shaky and his hands trembling by his sides, aching with a want he hadn’t known existed until now, unable to take his eyes away from Eric’s kneeling form and the whip marks that must have been like lashings of fire on his body. How much had it burnt? How much did it strip away until there was nothing left inside but the pain? _And why did that sound so good?_ “What’s wrong with me?”

Will came over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, an action meant to calm and soothe. “Go home, John. You won’t find the all the answers you seek here but, although you may not understand why you feel this way, hopefully you’re beginning to realise why the desire needs to be fulfilled.” He tapped Eric twice on the shoulder, a signal for him to rise as the sub again got to his feet. “We hope to see you again when you have your answers.”

John nodded, watching as the two men took their leave of him, before almost running from the building in his haste to reach Baker Street.

oOo

Sherlock was waiting for him when John got back to the flat, although perhaps ‘waiting’ was the wrong word. The detective was lying on the sofa again in his dressing gown, his hands under his chin in his thinking pose, and John couldn’t take his eyes off him.

“Have fun?” Sherlock asked, lifting the lid of one eye to look at John’s face and frowning when he saw the look that John had on him. “John?”

John heard his name spoken but he didn’t know how to respond to it, couldn’t sort through the chaos in his head that left him feeling bewildered and very unstable. “I went back to the club,” he said finally, watching as Sherlock pushed himself up to a sitting position on the sofa before taking the space that Sherlock had cleared for him.

“Why did you go back?” Sherlock asked, although John knew that Sherlock already knew what the answer was but wanted to hear it on John’s terms.

“I went and saw Eric and Will, the Dom and sub from the scene we saw the first night,” he murmured, wringing his hands together in front of him with his elbows on his knees. “I thought they might be able to help me make sense of it all.”

Sherlock shifted beside him, mimicking John’s position on the sofa. “And did they help you with anything?”

John went to shake his head in the negative, but felt his whole body freeze before he could start the action. It was wrong to say that they hadn’t helped him, but they hadn’t given him any answers, not any that he could go away with and say that the decision had been made for him. Will had answered John’s question with another question, numerous ones in fact, and John soon realised that Will wanted him to think about it. An answer wasn’t an answer that came from someone else, because that was their answer to the question, not yours. Yours had to come from within. “Will showed me a part of Eric’s back; it had whip marks on it.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, sensing that John hadn’t finished and was waiting for him to continue.

“I don’t know how I feel about this, Sherlock,” John said, turning to look his flatmate in the eye. “I can’t stop thinking about the whip marks, or the paddling. The blindfolds and cuffs. All of it. It’s dancing around in my head and I can’t get it out.”

Sherlock looked away from John’s eyes for a moment, staring into the fireplace and rubbing the flats of his hands together under his chin. “You’ve never felt anything like this before, correct? You only had the realisation that there was something more when we saw Eric and Will perform for us.” Sherlock paused, curling his fingers into a set of fists in front of him and closing his eyes. “Your dreams weren’t nightmares,” Sherlock said suddenly, opening his eyes and staring back at John. “You were dreaming about something else.”

“Yes.” There was no reason to deny it now, John thought to himself, not with the conversation he was having. “Something else entirely.”

“Why didn’t you say something, John?” Sherlock asked him, turning his body so his profile was facing him directly. “You could have spoken to me about it. I promised that I wouldn’t do anything to you.”

John chuckled in his throat, looking away from Sherlock and shaking his head. “Sherlock, when I think about it, I think that’s _exactly_ why I didn’t go to you. It took every ounce of will I had in me not to go to you and ask you for something, anything, to make it all go away; the anger at my own body because of its reaction to the scene, the emotions I was feeling over something that by all rights should have scarred me for life but instead did the exact opposite.”

“It made you wonder what it would be like to be dominated in such a way,” Sherlock murmured, his voice lowering an octave that made the hairs on John’s arms stand up under his shirt. “But it’s not just domination by anyone. You wondered what it would be like to be dominated by another man.”  

 John couldn’t suppress the shiver he felt at hearing the words come from Sherlock’s mouth, but it didn’t stop his instinctual need to reassert the label that he had always thought applied to himself. “But I’m straight!”

Sherlock didn’t say anything to John’s outburst, his eyes focussing off in the distance, and leaving John to wonder exactly where he’d disappeared to. After a short space of time Sherlock seemed to come back to himself, turning back to John and taking his face in his hands, his fingers cool on John’s skin. “Close your eyes.”

Unthinkingly, John did as he was asked; his own implicit trust in Sherlock making obeying the request an easy thing to do. “You’re not going to try and make me remember something again, are you?” John asked, remembering the incident outside the train line during the Blind Banker case.

 “Not exactly,” Sherlock replied, before John felt the press of another pair of lips against his own, the pressure light and tentative.

He opened his eyes at the contact, his hands coming to Sherlock’s wrists although he made no move to take Sherlock’s hands away from his face, and when he saw that Sherlock had closed his eyes he felt guilty for opening his own, but wasn’t sure why. It didn’t stop his lips from responding to the press of Sherlock’s, however, something that made Sherlock gasp into John’s mouth before Sherlock took John’s lower lip between his own, sucking on it gently and making John’s body come alive under the delicate touch.

It was too much and not enough all at once, for when Sherlock ended the kiss, John felt his mouth straining towards Sherlock’s lips to keep the contact going. “You’re not gay,” Sherlock said, opening his eyes to look into John’s own. “You’re not bisexual. But you are attracted to me.”

“Yes,” John whispered, shutting his eyes when one of Sherlock’s hands slid from the side of his face and curled around the back of his neck, the memory almost painful when he remembered seeing the same grasp around Eric’s neck by his Dom. “Please, Sherlock.” God, he didn’t even know what he was asking for. “Please, I don’t…”

“Ssh,” Sherlock whispered, bringing their bodies closer as he pressed their foreheads together. “It’s going to be all right, John. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

“But, Sherlock? God, when are we doing this? When does it start?”

“It’s already started, John.” Sherlock pulled back from his face, causing John to open his eyes to see where the other man was going, which meant he saw the glint in Sherlock’s eyes when Sherlock took his hands from John’s body. “I want to stand up in front of me,” Sherlock said, the words soft and clear in the room. “And I want you to strip until there’s nothing left for you to hide behind. You’re going to take off your clothes for me so I can see every inch of you. How far we go after you’re naked is up to you, but you don’t have a choice for this part. Do you understand?”

John felt his eyes close weakly at the order, unable to keep them open as he felt an answering weakness inside his own body answer Sherlock’s words; felt it unfurl itself inside him and bask in the lack of control, the now unnecessary requirement to make a decision. It was definitely a new sensation, one that had John trembling with just a little anxiety because he’d always attributed the loss of control with danger.

Oh… _Oh…_ It was starting to make sense now, but he couldn’t reflect on it for too long. Sherlock was waiting for an answer. He opened his eyes and found Sherlock looking at him patiently, without hesitance or worry over this unexplored territory, and it made his answer that much easier to say. “Yes, Sherlock.”

_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to everyone who has done anything from leave a review to reading this story! You are all awesome and I hope you enjoyed this part! I'll try not to keep you waiting too long for the next bit ;-)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: Thank to everyone for your support! :D:D:D The response has been fantastic and I'm thrilled you're enjoying it! I hope this part lives up to expectations ;-)

John got to his feet somehow, his conscious mind oblivious to the change between sitting and standing because it felt like all his muscles had turned to jelly and he desperately didn’t want to fall over, didn’t want to make himself look like an idiot with how much he was  _wanting_  this. When he was standing in front of Sherlock he became aware of his legs shaking beneath him, a faint tremor, and could hear the sound of his breathing in his ears which sounded far too fast. Yet these sensations were nothing compared to the feeling of Sherlock’s eyes watching his every move.

The other man was still sitting on the sofa and had leaned back against the cushions, his left arm draped casually over the back of the sofa while his right arm was resting on his right knee. It was a position that had been carefully chosen, John thought, because Sherlock knew it took John effort to take his eyes away from where Sherlock’s hand was on his knee, bringing the realness of that hand into sharp focus. What would it be doing to him? How much would he have to beg for it to  _do something_  to him?

Sherlock’s left arm, however, felt the complete opposite of his right. While his right arm spoke of dominance and control, having his other arm across the back of the sofa opened the left side of Sherlock’s body in a way that made John want to crawl into the space, to have that arm wrapped around him to … what? Remind him of who owned him? Comfort him through his tears, or was that something that the right hand would do? Would the hand that inflicted the pain be the one to soothe as well as torment?

Belatedly he realised that he was meant to be undressing, but that brought with it a whole new scope of questions. Did Sherlock want John’s eyes on his own while he was doing it, or did he want John to concentrate on the task at hand? Did he want it to done quickly or slowly? John knew that Sherlock could see his predicament but the other man didn’t say anything, meeting his eyes when John finally looked at him with an intensity that made John shiver.

Right… concentrate on each button of the shirt. Look at Sherlock every so often to make sure he was doing it right … God, was he doing it right? Did Sherlock like what he was seeing; John’s fumbling through his shirt buttons with fingers that refused to bend to his will, or the way he had bit his lower lip between his teeth, struggling through all of it because he couldn’t make sense of it with the fire in his veins and the storm in his head?

John had been so caught up in his own mind that he didn’t notice it at first when his hands had stopped moving, and it was only when he looked down at them that he saw that Sherlock had stopped him. Sherlock had stood up from the sofa into John’s personal space and taken John’s hands in his own, stilling any movement and waiting until John came back to himself, came back to the reality of it. With Sherlock’s hands on his skin, John felt the whirlwind in his brain break and subside, a whisper among the debris left behind which made him feel awkward and dizzy.

“Stay with me, John,” Sherlock said, bringing John’s attention back to him. “Keep your eyes on me and don’t move until I tell you.”

John exhaled a shuddery breath at the relief that the order made him feel, nodding to Sherlock’s command and keeping his eyes open as Sherlock decided to finish what John had only just started. But it wasn’t a quick affair, not the way he’d seen Sherlock undress before, all business-like without any unnecessary pauses. This was something different.

Sherlock moved his hands to the cuffs of John’s shirt, undoing them with ease and placing the cuffs on the coffee table beside them before resuming where John had left off. The first feather-light touch of Sherlock’s right hand to the area just below the opening of his shirt made John catch his breath, almost afraid to move in case he dislodged it by accident, and the warmth of those fingertips seeped through the fabric, teasing his skin with the promise of more. The first button Sherlock came to was opened without any fuss, but when the button was dealt with Sherlock’s fingertips stayed where they were, gently parting the gap made in John’s shirt and delicately brushing the skin on John’s chest.

No, the pauses here weren’t unnecessary, not in the slightest. Each one was exquisitely controlled, left just long enough to make John hyper-aware of the contact before Sherlock moved onto the next button. Oh yes, John was being teased, left completely helpless to the control that Sherlock was exerting over him, and the fact that the man hadn’t even finished undoing his shirt yet forced John to acknowledge the power that the detective had over him.

“We haven’t discussed whether or not you’ll need a safe word,” Sherlock murmured, continuing to undo John’s shirt as he spoke and leaving John with the uncomfortable sensation of being torn between two things that each required his utmost attention; what Sherlock was saying and what he was doing. “For now, if you want me to stop at any time, all you need to do is say so and whatever we’re doing will cease immediately. If we’re in agreement that this is the sort of relationship we both want afterwards, we can look into the specifics later.”

John nodded to Sherlock’s words although his agreement hadn’t been specifically asked for, but it seemed rude not to respond, not when Sherlock had, in all fairness, established a boundary that hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, being given the option to say no, but if he really did decide that this was what he wanted with Sherlock, they would need to establish safe words and hand signals just in case he was gagged and couldn’t say the words, knowing that Sherlock would be watching him and testing his limits… John choked on a moan, his eyes closing briefly at the ache that spread through him.  

It couldn’t have been more than two minutes when Sherlock finally finished undoing his shirt, but to John it felt like an eternity had passed, his base mind living only for the next touch, the next command, with everything after that being pointless. Sherlock brought his left arm into play, bringing both his hands to the lapels of John’s shirt and using them to open it even further, exposing John’s chest to the air of the flat which had been kept warm by the fire in the hearth. To John’s increasing impatience though, Sherlock had yet to touch him,  _really_  touch him, and all he could think of was those hands on his body although he wasn’t sure what it was he actually wanted.     

He looked up into Sherlock’s eyes again, seeing the trace of desire in those bright blue eyes (were those eyes blue today or was it a trick of the light?) and John realised that Sherlock knew exactly what he was going through and was enjoying it. He wanted John to ache for it, the need for more of whatever this was, this new reality; he wanted John to crave it so keenly that he would feel it in his bones.

And with that craving came the delicate balance that John also knew Sherlock wanted. Yes, it was ok for him to want this, to beg for it, but it wasn’t ok if he allowed himself to become overruled by it, enough that it made him disobey an order or caused Sherlock displeasure, and why did that thought send a twisting sensation through his guts, the very image of Sherlock’s face looking down at him not with praise but with dismissal?

John whimpered in his throat when the heat of Sherlock’s hands through the fabric became boiling, and he watched as Sherlock slid his hands across the skin of his shoulders, carrying the undone shirt on his wrists until the shirt was on the floor behind John, leaving his upper body bare to the perusal of Sherlock’s all-seeing, all-knowing gaze. He swore to himself that he could almost feel it, the burn left on his flesh from where Sherlock’s eyes traced over his skin, memorising the exact placement of each hair on his chest and the way his skin was pulled taut over his pectoral muscles.

Sherlock’s hands left his body for the space of a breath, his fingers seeking the clasp on John’s trousers and tickling his stomach as those digits undid the buttons at the top and gripped the buckle of the zip. It was there that Sherlock paused again, and John looked to the other man to see what it was that Sherlock wanted, soon finding that Sherlock was asking him if this was ok, but not in so many words. The hunger hadn’t diminished though and John’s whispered, “Please,” spurred Sherlock’s hands into action, sliding the zip down its teeth until his trousers were loose around his hips.

John’s attention had never been so enraptured, expecting another slow exploration but taken by surprise when Sherlock’s hands took both the hem of his trousers and his boxers and pulled them down, adjusting the clothing for John’s erection which sprung free once it escaped its confines, and motioning for John to step out of them when the boxers and trousers were around his ankles. John did as asked, pulling his feet free and holding each one up so Sherlock could remove his socks too, until he was standing naked in the living room of their flat with the detective taking the clothes and putting them back onto the sofa behind them.

And if John thought having Sherlock’s eyes on his upper torso left burn marks where they touched him before, he was being scorched by the heat of the sun itself when he felt Sherlock’s eyes on the other, more sensitive parts of his body. His erection twitched under the attention, not aching yet, but John had the feeling that it wouldn’t remain that way for long. He  _hoped_  it wouldn’t be left that way for long.

But Sherlock wasn’t looking at his cock anymore. He was looking at John’s face, watching carefully for any signs of distress or anxiety at being naked with another man who still had the tight clasp of a dressing gown keeping his own body from view. John had never been more aware of it, his vulnerability in his nudity, but, instead of making him tense and nervous, the complete lack of control made his shoulders relax and his arms hang down by his sides, his fingers loose and lightly curled towards the palms.   

Sherlock began to move then, his keen gaze seeing the signs of John’s relaxed state, and John kept his eyes staring straight ahead when Sherlock moved from his line of vision, the wallpaper on the wall in front of him blurring before his eyes and becoming a mass of indistinguishable colours and patterns. His other senses were so attuned to Sherlock’s presence just than that John was surprised he couldn’t read the detective’s thoughts; he knew that Sherlock was looking at him, looking at his whole body from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, and leaving nothing out in-between. He didn’t use his hands and John didn’t know whether to be relieved by that or not, even when Sherlock came to his back and stood behind him.

_Oh…_  He was using his hands now, or a hand to be precise, and Sherlock had put his fingertips onto the scar at the back of John’s left shoulder. Sherlock was looking at the exit wound the bullet had made when it left his body, the scar so much more livid on his back unlike the entry wound which was a small, taut circle that pulled at him when the weather turned cold. “Be still,” Sherlock murmured, the sound of his voice shocking John back into focus, and with that focus came the realisation that he’d been pushing his body back into Sherlock’s fingers, wanting more pressure and his body had answered the demand for it.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, the words catching in his throat and making it hurt, but Sherlock was shushing him, coming back around to John’s front and using his fingers to tilt John’s head up until he could look Sherlock in the eye.

“You’re doing so well, John,” Sherlock said, keeping his fingers on the skin of John’s chin so he could see the flush which spread over John’s cheeks and down his throat at the words. “Yes… You feel it, don’t you, I can see it on you. You want to do well.”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John replied, the words becoming easier to say all the time. “I want to please you.”

Sherlock smiled, a small one that tilted just the corners of his mouth up, before he took his hand away from John’s chin and brought the first two fingers of his right hand to John’s mouth. “Then you can deduce what to do now, can’t you.”

The pads of Sherlock’s fingers traced his bottom lip with the barest of pressure, not forcing exactly but more encouraging John to open his mouth to allow those fingers inside him.

_'Inside me… He wants to be inside me…’_  The thought made him moan in his chest, pulling his lips apart from one another to grant entrance to Sherlock’s fingers and they didn’t hesitate, sliding into the moistness of his mouth and pressing down on his tongue.

“Get them wet,” Sherlock whispered, his pupils blown in his eyes until they almost eclipsed the blue of his irises; John couldn’t look away from them, not even when the taste of Sherlock’s fingers exploded on his taste-buds. The salty tang of skin in his mouth, the musk and flavour of something undeniably Sherlock pressing in on the inside of his cheeks and around his teeth as he twined his tongue around the two fingers, dipping into the space between them and working to ensure every millimetre of their surface was covered in a thin layer of his saliva.

He didn’t try to suck them. If he was completely honest with himself, he wasn’t sure that the act of sucking Sherlock’s fingers wouldn’t make the other man want to use John’s mouth on another part of the body that responded well to the same motions, and John just couldn’t see himself in that position. With his lips pursed around the head of a cock that its owner wanted to use to fill his mouth with hot, hard flesh, using John for his pleasure and holding onto John’s head to hold him in place for the man, for  _Sherlock_ , as he began to fuck down his throat.

John felt his cock jerk against his stomach muscles, his eyes widening in surprise when he felt the wetness at the tip smear on his skin at the mental image of Sherlock fucking his face, his lips having already followed his train of thought and suckling with a little pressure on the fingers in his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes stayed on his all the while his fingers were in John’s mouth and he began to move his hand away from John’s face, withdrawing his fingers as he did so.

John circled his tongue around the tip of those fingers as they left his mouth, replacing the saliva that he’d unintentionally sucked off of them during his fantasy (was it a fantasy if he wasn’t ready to indulge it?) and watching Sherlock with wide eyes when the hand drifted to his chest and down to his right nipple.

“Relax,” Sherlock soothed, rubbing the spit-slick fingers over the nub and coaxing it into hardness before moving onto his left nipple to garner the same reaction. “I knew what you were thinking of the moment you began to suck my fingers, but we both know you’re not ready for that yet so there’s no need to worry.”  

John would have nodded, an acknowledgement of the fact that he’d at least heard Sherlock speak to him, if it weren’t for Sherlock’s fingers returning to his right nipple and catching it between his fingers and thumb, plucking at the hard flesh before gripping it from the base and twisting in a sharp pinch that had John gasping.

“Ohhh God…” John moaned, the clever tips of those fingers leaving one nipple and moving onto the other, giving it the same attention until his chest throbbed at those small points, each beat of his heart pulsing blood through the sensitive little nubs and intensifying the ache that Sherlock had put there. He’d never thought of his nipples as particularly sensitive because more often than not his previous partners were more interested in his cock, but Sherlock seemed to have a fascination for them, bringing up his left hand so he could play with both of them at the same time. When he felt John was ready for it, he used the edges of his nails on his index fingers and thumbs to press into the nipples at their bases before plucking at them again, and each pull of those nails on his chest made John groan in his throat with the pain that intensified with each movement of Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock finished playing with his nipples after what seemed a lifetime, but John couldn’t decide whether the noise that came from his mouth was one that pleaded  _stop_ or  _more._  His cock throbbed at his groin, each jerk a testament to his arousal over the nipple play and the sharp bursts of pain that lingered on his skin, but he also knew that this was just the start of what he’d seen at the club and on those websites. Nipple torture wasn’t even thought of as hard-core by the people that considered BDSM a lifestyle, more a warm-up for the activities to come, but John was still unsure about the direction that he wanted to take, the path that would feel right for him.

Another pinch from Sherlock to his left hip brought him sharply to attention as it was meant to, for the action hadn’t been pleasurable in any way, just a reminder of what he was supposed to be focussing on. “John,” Sherlock said, keeping that hand on his hip as he spoke. “Trust me.” No further elaboration was offered by Sherlock, just a deep look into John’s eyes that strengthened the connection that John could feel building between them. This felt like more than lust or sex, not just because they hadn’t gotten that far, but also because he had to trust that Sherlock knew how far to take it, to push John’s boundaries past what he thought he was capable of.

“Sherlock…” he whispered, gasping in a stuttering breath when Sherlock placed his right hand on the centre of John’s chest, feeling his heartbeat. “God, this is…”

“Yes…” Sherlock responded, keeping his hand where it was as he leant forward, bringing their faces closer together until they were breathing each other in. “It is. Are you ready for the next part?”

“God, yes,” John said breathlessly, wanting to kiss Sherlock and feel their lips pressing against each other, but he’d been told not to move and it was getting to the point that he really wanted to.

“You have a choice,” Sherlock murmured, sliding his hand down John’s chest in a smooth, slow glide and stopping just before he was just about to brush against John’s cock. The nearness of Sherlock’s hand to his hardness made John’s need to find release rocket inside of him, but he knew he couldn’t move, knew he wasn’t allowed to. “I do want you to cum from this,” Sherlock said, seeing John’s internal struggle, “but the way you’ll do it is up to you. You can stand here and jerk yourself off with your hands without me touching you. I’ll be watching you from the sofa to see how you pleasure yourself and how long it takes you to get there. Or,” his hand brushed back up John’s torso and brushed across one of his nipples lightly, the pain from the gentle touch making John breathe in sharply and wince even as his cock loved it. “Or,” Sherlock whispered, “you can have my nails on your chest, making you hurt… Making you beg for release. And when I think you’re ready, you can bring yourself to orgasm with my fingers on your nipples, tugging at them through each pulse of your cock.”

Sherlock stepped away from John, a single step back out of his personal space, and John whimpered at the loss of it, that closeness of the other man who he was steadily growing to rely on.  _God,_  how did he even choose? He wanted to cum; his balls felt heavy and full from all the sensations up to this point and he knew he wouldn’t last five strokes if he got to use his own hands. But the thought of Sherlock’s hands on him again, teasing him, drawing out the agony on his nipples until he was sobbing with it and only then giving him permission to finish… How much would it hurt, how would the feel of Sherlock’s nails on his skin affect his orgasm?   

“Have you made a decision, John?” Sherlock asked, nothing in his tone suggesting that he wanted it one way or the other except for the fact that when John looked at Sherlock he could see how much Sherlock was restraining himself, wanting to hold John down until he was broken and sobbing on the floor.

“You,” John said; his voice raw in his throat. “I want you, God please; I want your hands on me. Please, Sherlock…”

The detective didn’t even speak to John at first after he’d made his decision, stepping back towards him and bringing his hands to John’s nipples again. “So beautiful,” Sherlock said, his eyes drinking in John’s responses to the sensory bombardment being inflicted on him as his fingers pinched and twisted John’s flesh. “Look at you; you’re so hard for this. You want to cum, don’t you? You’ve been so good, John, such a good submissive, and you deserve it, don’t you?”

“Oh, oh, oh…” John felt his mental walls being taken down, dismantled inside his head with an efficiency that should have scared him, but all he could focus on was Sherlock’s hands on his body, the sound of Sherlock’s voice in his ears and the throbbing of his cock between his legs, his own voice unable to do anything else but moan continuously at the need/pain/pleasure that was flooding his system.

As if from far away, his subconscious mind listened to the command that Sherlock gave him, the command to use his hands to finish himself off, to cum all over himself and show Sherlock just how much he was enjoying it. So much so, in fact, that he was completely unprepared for the intensity of it when he wrapped his fingers around his cock and stroked himself from base to tip, managing two clumsy strokes and cupping his balls until he cried out at the clenching of his muscles, his nipples aching throughout his climax and making each jolt and shudder that much sweeter, the wetness of his cum dripping between his fingers and making everything slick, drawing out his release in spasms that actually hurt.

Dimly, he felt Sherlock’s hands cup his face as he released himself, whimpering and moaning at the final shudders his body gave as Sherlock brought their faces closer together to bask in the aftereffects of John’s orgasm. “Did I please you?” John whispered, his voice broken with tears glistening on his cheeks that he hadn’t known he’d shed.

“Yes,” Sherlock assured him, brushing his lips against John’s and stroking his thumbs across John’s cheeks to massage his tears into his skin. “You’re so beautiful when you cum, did you know that? Exquisite.” He took one hand away from John’s face and reached down for one of John’s own, pulling their hands up between them until John could see the evidence of his release staining both of their fingers where they were joined. “One thing left,” Sherlock said, straightening John’s fingers and holding his hand at the base. “Don’t forget to clean up after yourself.”

John knew what Sherlock was asking of him, his eyes glued to his own hand which had so recently been on his erection and watching as his release dripped down between his fingers. He knew that Sherlock wanted him to do it while the detective watched, up close so he could see every emotion that would pass across John’s face. And God, he thought, what Sherlock wanted, he wanted and he wondered why he had ever thought it should be otherwise. With a deep moan that he felt all the way to his core, he opened his mouth and took his fingers inside, Sherlock’s own groan of appreciation filling his ears as he licked himself clean.

_To be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: Sorry for the long update to this one, everyone! For some reason, my writing muse just didn't co-operate until I was at work and then I'd get flashes of inspiration. Nearly all of this chapter has been written during my lunch hour - there's something deliciously naughty about writing this sort of thing during my break but I've given up trying to figure it out ;-)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this bit and thank you all for your feedback so far! You're all stars in my universe!
> 
> A/N 2: I've rewritten the chapter concerning Sherlock's dialogue because, after reading it and watching an episode of the series, I decided that it sounded nothing like him! I hope it reflects more of Sherlock's character now and please feel free to let me know what you think! :D

For what seemed like an age, John was blissfully unaware of the outside world beyond himself or Sherlock; even the room in which they were standing was shrouded in a misty haze, with the sound of his heartbeat thrumming in his ears and the feel of Sherlock's hands on his body being the only things he was aware of in those quiet moments.

Sherlock's hands were on his hips now, the man having taken them from John's own to place them delicately on the sensitive skin on the edge of his hipbones, with Sherlock's right hand soothing the mark left from the pinch that had been placed there earlier from when John had momentarily lost his focus. The gentle rotation of that thumb on his left hip captured his attention for a few seconds, his mind cataloguing the feel of the pad on his skin and the calluses there (which were probably the result of an experiment gone awry), before shifting again to the warmth which was emanating from the man in front of him.

Although the primal part of his brain longed to press his body towards Sherlock until they were flush against each other, what was left of his logical thought was quick to remind him of the pain coming from his nipples, which would only intensify if they made contact with anything else besides the air around him. A pain that had been purposefully caused by the detective to his body in the pursuit of a mutual pleasure; of receiving the pain, in John's case, and of giving it in Sherlock's, the desire to submit and overpower both tangible presences in the room while the scene was being played out.

The act itself has been over since the culmination of his orgasm, but John couldn't say that the atmosphere in the room had changed at all from when Sherlock had first told him that this, whatever they were doing, was already happening. He couldn't see Sherlock's face because his eyes were closed, but that didn't detract from the feeling of Sherlock being close to him; it actually enhanced it. The man's scent was strong in his nostrils from where Sherlock had his head close to John's own (a scent resembling the sandalwood of the man's shower gel and the chemicals used in his experiments), with the both of them breathing in the other person which felt far more intimate than anything they'd done so far.

No words had been spoken since Sherlock had given John the order to lick his fingers clean and the salty tang of his cum in his mouth, now fading with each swallow, was a potent reminder of exactly what John had done in order to gain Sherlock's pleasure. It hadn't been the first time that he'd tasted himself; there had been one instance in his early teens when the white substance coming from his cock had intrigued him and his curiosity had gotten the better of him. That first initial taste had been discovered with a large amount of spluttering and spitting because the flavour had really been too briny for his liking and it meant that he hadn't tried it again since.

Not until Sherlock had ordered him to.

John could feel the skin on his cheeks flush with warmth at the memory of Sherlock's smooth, cultured voice commanding him, the blush spreading down his face and neck until it reached his chest. He knew that Sherlock had his eyes open because Sherlock's right hand moved from his hip to trace the outside edges of the blush before placing the palm of that hand in the centre of John's chest, almost directly over his heart, to feel the rhythmic beat of the muscle as it pumped his blood around his body.

"Tell me what you were thinking of just now," Sherlock murmured, a lower octave than normal which only increased the heat in John's face and the speed of his heartbeat, both signs that John knew Sherlock would notice.

John kept his eyes closed, partly because Sherlock hadn't ordered him to open them but also because it gave him the illusion of privacy, a feeling of solitude. As though he were in his room on his own, about to say the words aloud in an area where no one else would be able to hear him (if he didn't say them out loud, did that make them any less real?), all those secret desires that he shied away from and desired in equal parts. But that couldn't be further from the truth, for Sherlock would hear every syllable of every word that he said and a small part of him quaked at the very thought of telling Sherlock what he'd been thinking about even though he had no idea why. Why was he feeling that way after everything that they'd done together, everything that they would do together if they decided that this was something that they wanted to continue?

Why was the thought of it not continuing making his left hand tremble?

"John, I need you to concentrate," Sherlock said, allowing the tone of his voice to edge closer to that of an order. As Sherlock was speaking, John felt Sherlock's hand come into contact with his left, noting the tremble there. "You're concerned about something," the detective murmured, "and only just after our recent activities. Why?"

John exhaled sharply, experiencing a full body shudder before he controlled it. "I'm … I don't want this to end," he whispered, wincing with how needful he sounded. "But I'm afraid of what will happen if we continue. I'm not sure about any of this."

Nothing came from Sherlock for a moment, and John was afraid that he'd said too much until he felt Sherlock's hands move and come to rest on his hips again. "At the beginning of this, I informed you that you have a choice in everything that we do together, even if it's to tell me to stop. That has not changed and if you decide that you'd rather things went back to normal, than that is what will happen." As though to undermine his words, Sherlock's fingers tightened marginally on his hips, unwilling to break away from the physical contact. "Before you decide on anything rash, I would prefer it if you allowed us to continue with this. We haven't made anything official yet but I want to see how this will work, John, with you if you are acceptable."

John nodded, taking a deep, reassuring breath to halt his outbreak of nerves and letting Sherlock's voice into his head, using it just as he had used the pain to balance himself, to ground his mind to the reality of their situation. They hadn't yet decided whether or not they would be continuing with this but all outward indicators seemed good considering Sherlock was still in the moment with him, and John's own reactions to Sherlock's presence were definitely in favour of future activities between them. It was as Sherlock said; he needed to not get too far ahead of himself and, more importantly, he had to trust that Sherlock knew what he was doing. "I was thinking about your voice," John said, going back to Sherlock's previous question and trying to keep his breathing calm because he didn't want to stumble over his words, didn't want Sherlock to get the wrong impression over anything he said. "When you were speaking to me earlier as you were … hurting me."

Sherlock remained silent, waiting for John to finish before he answered. "How does that make you feel, John? I can see it on you, your body is so expressive, but I want to hear it in your own words."

"I… God, I loved it," John admitted, feeling his blush rise with the words but unable to stop now that they were out in the open, didn't want to stop them because it was suddenly easier to let them go. "It's just as I imagined it would be."

"That's a very leading sentence," Sherlock murmured and John felt an increase in heat on the right side of his face when Sherlock moved his head so his mouth was next to John's right ear, being careful not to move his body closer to John's in a conscious decision to avoid putting pressure on his nipples and something that John was grateful for. "What is it about my voice that you like so much?"

John didn't try to suppress the shiver that passed through him at having Sherlock's mouth so close to the lobe of his ear, his warm breath ghosting on the side of John's face in reminiscence of the moment when Sherlock had done the same at the club in front of Will, displaying his ownership for the other man to see. "Its depth," John whispered, panting slightly when Sherlock's hand slid down from his chest and back to his left hip, mirroring the grip of his hand on John's opposite side. "The smoothness of it… it's so intense that it felt like I couldn't focus on anything else when you were speaking to me."

"I've often been told that people find me a very intense person," Sherlock said, his voice a warm chuckle that made John tremble again. "It works to my advantage. Can you tell me what else were you thinking about?"

"The feel of your nails on my skin," John said, opening his eyes and seeing the blue hue of Sherlock's dressing gown, so close to the touch and yet so far away that the distance felt insurmountable. "The pain they caused on my body… Oh God, I wanted it," he gasped, his hands curled into fists at his sides. "I wanted the pain there because I knew how much it would hurt." The words burned in his throat, a short, intense fire that sent his pulse racing and caused the sweat to bead on his face, but after he'd said them he felt better, like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders with the truth of them.

"That's good, John," Sherlock murmured, stroking his fingers up and down the sides of John's body and making his skin break out into goose-bumps. "You're doing very well, but you're not quite there yet. What more is it that I need from you? Can you figure out what it is?"

Oh, Sherlock was being unkind, distracting John with his hands and voice in a dance which was designed to seduce and disarm even the most logical mind, so the fact that John's had been dismantled quite some time ago wasn't working in his favour. His mind felt almost frantic, trying to figure out what it was that Sherlock wanted with his voice catching in his throat, unable to find the words when Sherlock moved his mouth to the lobe of the ear it was so close to and began to nibble on it.

What was it that Sherlock wanted? What had he missed, or had he missed anything at all? Was Sherlock just teasing him, or was there something that he needed from John, something that he hadn't said yet? All through his thoughts, Sherlock continued to nip and lick at his ear, Sherlock's hands moving from his hips and across the flat planes of his stomach, sliding those clever fingers back up his chest, over the muscles of his shoulders and down his arms before slipping his fingers between John's. The touches on his body had been possessive, cursory sweeps that left John with a tingling sensation in their wake, as though those hands were merely marking the areas for further exploration later when there was more time to be had. The touch to his hands though, it was different; a loose clasp, a gentle curling of the digits around John's fingers with the tips stroking the insides of his palms.

Sherlock was cataloguing the feel of his hands, John realised, closing his eyes in a slow exhale before he tentatively returned the exploration, ready to stop at a moment's notice in case Sherlock wanted him to remain still. When nothing came from the detective John allowed himself to be a little bolder, focussing on the feel of the other man's hands in his own and the pleasure of being able to explore a part of Sherlock that had been the cause of his peak just moments before.

Sherlock's fingers seemed longer than they had when they'd been on his body, but no less strong for it, and the calluses on the pads at their tips reminded John of the detective's other obsession in his world (besides his work as a consultant for the Police Department). Above all else, Sherlock's violin playing gave him the focus required for him to understand a case; whether it be through long, flowing melodies that spoke of the intricacies of the case they were working on, or through sharp, short bursts of sound that sounded like a screeching cat, mimicking the chaos in Sherlock's head when the clues he was searching for remained just outside of his reach.

It made him wonder what else those fingers could do to him, more than they had done already, and God, just thinking about those long digits on his nipples again made John's cock throb in a thick, lazy pulse, not aroused enough to warrant full hardness but a reminder nonetheless of the power that Sherlock held at his fingertips.

Quite literally, in this case.

It also made John wonder what the other man was thinking when he was touching John's hands; what did he think about when he traced the hard skin left over from John's use of a weapon? Or the long scar on the inside of his right hand, a wound acquired when he was younger when he fell from a tree and had tried unsuccessfully to stop his fall? Would Sherlock know what had caused it, the scar, or would he have to guess at it, take a closer look at the wound to see what angle the tree branch had caught John before he could deduce it?

The slow touches continued between them, neither of them in a hurry for the contact to end any time soon, and John tried to imagine what this would have been like if he had gone back to the club and another Dom had picked him up in Sherlock's place. Would this have happened at all, this awareness of each other's bodies, of each other's habits and loves and hurts? Or would it have all been a guessing game, with neither John nor the Dom reaching that level of intimacy that John knew he shared with his flatmate? Would he have been able to reach the amount of trust required to allow a stranger to cause him pain intentionally?

The response was a world-resounding 'no' and it was enough to give John the answer he'd known all along to the question Sherlock hadn't asked him.

"You," he whispered, moaning when the attention being given to his ear stopped. "I want all of you," he continued, closing his own fingers around Sherlock's in an affirmation of his words. "Ever since that night in the club when you were pretending to be my Dom. I want that with you, what Eric and Will have."

"Excellent, John," Sherlock said passionately, moving his head back until they were looking at each other in the eye. "Don't worry, you'll get everything you've asked for from me and more, but our relationship won't be like Eric's and Will's." His hands released their grip on John's, bringing them up until they cupped his face again to hold John in place although Sherlock's eyes were more than apt at doing that on their own. John felt himself becoming lost in them, the intensity of Sherlock's look seizing his entire body and making it yearn for the other man as Sherlock said what John had never thought he'd want so much but was suddenly desperate for, had in fact been waiting to hear the words for what felt like his whole existence. "It will be so much better."

oOo

Aftercare, John reflected, wasn't something that he'd paid much attention to when he'd done his initial research into BDSM. From his very limited foray into the topic, he knew that it meant different things to different people and depended on several factors; like the relationship between the Dom and their sub, the rules which had been laid out before the scene started; or even whether or not the sub was on his own if he had no Dom to attend to his needs.

He knew that these instances were only the tip of the ice-burg and John didn't dare call himself an expert at it; he'd only just been introduced to the BDSM world and felt, for all intents and purposes, like a virgin again, trying understand what it was that worked best for his body and not fall off in the deep end. He knew that he hadn't gone into detail on the aftercare side of things because it meant that people were actually being hurt by participating in this, despite the consent on both sides, and that they would need to recover from those injuries before anything more could be done to them. At the time, the thought of anyone causing that much damage to his body had left him feeling cold inside, his cock a limp thing in his trousers that he couldn't rouse for love nor money after the things he'd read and seen on those websites.

With Sherlock's hands on his chest and his eyes inspecting John's nipples to look for any swelling or residual soreness, John was finally beginning to understand what all the fuss was about. It wasn't the fact that pain had been inflicted on those people's bodies, for there was no escaping that, but John was beginning to realise that it was more about the relationship between the sub and the person that they'd chosen to inflict that pain upon them.

_'"He asked me for every single one. And I gave them to him without remorse or regret."'_

Will's words drifted through his mind, his memory providing him with a perfect visual image of Eric's back and the whip marks on his flesh. If it was as Will had said, and Eric's behaviour towards his Dom hadn't suggested otherwise, how much had Eric begged for them before the scene had ended? How much did Will decide Eric could take before he was forced to stop the scene himself, or did he trust his sub so implicitly to know his own body that Eric would have stopped the scene before his limit was breached?

The ache in John's nipples was finally receding, but he couldn't say how much time had passed since they'd started and he couldn't even remember what the time had been when he'd left the club that evening. It was still night-time outside, but it could have passed midnight on the following day and he would have been none the wiser. If he had lost that much awareness of his surroundings, how would he have that much control over what was happening to his body? Would it be like an outer-body experience, except completely the opposite where he would sink so far into himself that even cognisant thought would become a distant memory?

He knew that it kept coming back to one thing, and that was his trust in Sherlock. The man had, in his own way, asked for John's explicit permission to carry on with this relationship and that in itself opened up a whole new scope of questions and scenes to be explored.

Would Sherlock strike him with the riding crop?

Would nipple clamps be used on him?

Would he be tied down somewhere and left to strain and moan for the touch of Sherlock's mouth, his hands, anything to relieve the ache inside of him?

Each thought had its own shiver of reaction and John struggled to remain attentive to what Sherlock was doing, apparently satisfied that no lasting damage had been caused and bringing his eyes back up so they met John's. "It's time for us to move on from this; you can get dressed if you want but I wouldn't suggest putting on your shirt. I want you to be comfortable so we can discuss exactly where it is that we're going with this, but you also need to allow your body to recover from the aftereffects of the scene. Understood?"

"Yes, Sherlock," John said readily. They definitely needed to talk about this and it might help him with some of the more burning questions that he had; the lack of clothing on his upper body was a relief in all honesty because he'd been worried that Sherlock would have made him put the clothes back on precisely because of the tenderness in his nipples. Would he have done it if he'd been told otherwise?

Sherlock stepped out of John's personal space, giving them both some much needed breathing space. "If you prefer your current level of modesty you can remain as you are. Regardless of your decision, you're to wait on your chair until I return and I don't want to hear a single sound out of you until I give you permission to do so. Nod if you understand."

John nodded after a moment to show Sherlock that he'd thought carefully about the words until agreeing to them, and waited until Sherlock left the room before deciding to pull just his boxers on, unwilling to use his shirt or trousers because the room felt too warm for them, or was it just his elevated temperature? Either way, he wasn't putting the shirt back on for the reason Sherlock had stated, but he wasn't sure of the reasons behind it. He knew it would hurt if he did but would that hurt be a good or bad thing?

Realising that he still had an order to follow; he sat down on his chair and tried to figure out how he should sit because that suddenly seemed important. If he sat back and relaxed, would it come across as nonchalant, as though John couldn't care less whether they had this conversation or not? Or, if he leant forward on his knees, would that make him appear too eager or perhaps a little anxious of what was to come?

It wasn't a question he got to answer because he was jostled out of his thoughts by Sherlock's return; the detective had a glass of water in his right hand, which he gave to John with an order to sip from, and he had his riding crop in his left hand which was held down at his side in a loose manner. It didn't matter to John how the riding crop was being held in that moment because he still couldn't take his eyes off of it, even when Sherlock sat in his own chair opposite him and crossed his legs while holding the crop over them. The position was the same one Sherlock had been in when John had come back early from his shift and, judging by the look in Sherlock's eyes, the move was completely intentional.

"You have questions," Sherlock murmured, regarding John from beneath his fringe. "You think so loudly, did you know that? I could almost hear you even though I wasn't in the room." John didn't know how to respond to that and some of his unease must have shown on his face because Sherlock was quick to alleviate his worries. "You shouldn't be concerned about it. Unlike most people, who don't think at all, your mind is something of a revelation; you try to think about the right things although you do worry about them too much." Sherlock took the riding crop in his right hand and placed it down on the floor beside his chair before turning back to John and placing his hands in front of his face, the fingertips pressed together. "I'm wondering if that's partly why you want me to me your Dom; you like it when you have my full attention but only in the matters that suit you; when we're on a case, for example. I can tell you that, as your Dom, I will have access to every facet of your life because you will give it to me, not because I have forced you to but because it's what you want to do. You'll want to share everything with me of your own volition because it is what feels right."

Sherlock paused and it reminded John keenly of the order that he hadn't been given permission to speak because it felt like there was so much that he wanted to say; yes to everything Sherlock had said, as a matter of fact, because a small part of him desperately wanted to succumb to the other man's will and he wanted nothing more than to see the detective's eyes alight with praise for him, over something that he'd said or did that had pleased Sherlock to no end.

Seeing John's predicament, Sherlock glanced over his frame briefly before returning his eyes back to John's. "You have my permission to speak as long as you can retain the calmness that you had during the scene. If not, remain silent until you are able to."

John wanted that as well, to keep the calm state of mind he'd achieved when Sherlock had been stimulating him, but he felt too uncomfortable while he was sitting as he was, unsure of where to put his arms and feeling far too far away from Sherlock given what had just happened between them. He liked to have closeness after being with someone physically and this enforced distance made a knot of  _something_  lodge in his stomach.

Sherlock's eyes darkened in the firelight, seeing the evidence of John's distraction on his body. "Stand up and come to my chair," he said softly. "I want to try something with you."

John startled where he sat, watching Sherlock with wide eyes before rising to obey the order; he walked the two steps up to Sherlock, unsure of where to put his hands and wishing that he had gotten dressed in the end because this felt too intense, too much to handle in too short a time.

"Kneel," Sherlock said, eyes holding John's in an unshakable grip. "When you're on your knees, cross your hands in front of you at your wrists with your right hand in front of your left."

John felt his knees go soft underneath him, relaxing almost completely until he remembered that he would need to stop himself from falling to the floor and tensing at the last moment, just preventing his knees from knocking on the carpet but making the whole move jerky and uncoordinated. Flushing with embarrassment, he put his hands into the position requested of him and looking up again to see what Sherlock was doing, taking his lower lip between his teeth in a reflexive action.

"Relax," Sherlock breathed, leaning forward in his chair until he was eye level with John and reaching out a hand to lightly grasp at John's chin. "I know this is unsettling for you, but you haven't done anything that I haven't asked you to and this will get easier as we progress."

John nodded, feeling the muscles in his neck, back and arms relax marginally with Sherlock's words and the position he was in became more comfortable, allowing him to sink into it more fully so he no longer had to think about it. And that felt so much better, the embers from the dying fire keeping him warm on his left side and feeling a lot more stable where he was; which made no sense because he was technically beneath Sherlock in this position and wasn't this meant to be a partnership?

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked, withdrawing his hand from John's chin but keeping his profile leaning towards him.

"I'm thinking about the power-play in all this," John said, his response easy and fast. "I don't know how I feel about it."

Sherlock waved a hand briefly to John's words but it wasn't in dismissal, leaning back in his chair until he was almost sprawled in it. "That's something that we'll both come to understand once we've had the practise. Don't be mistaken, John; I'm as much a virgin in this as you are."

John's mouth dropped open. "You're kidding, right? But you're so… so…"

"Good at it?" Sherlock offered with an eyebrow raised speculatively.

"Well… Yes, actually," John said, more than a little flustered. "How do you…?"

"The same way I can mimic a priest in distress or a person who has been locked out of their flat," Sherlock said with humour, "although not in quite so dispassionate a way as you might think. I'm well aware of the trust that this requires, John; believe me when I say that I am not taking this lightly."

John took a moment to absorb that, just because it was so unlike Sherlock to declare any feelings he did have that it made this moment more special. It would seem that he was entering into more than just a physical relationship with Sherlock, so did this mean that the power-play he'd been referring to earlier could somehow work both ways? Like topping from the bottom? Was that even allowed?

"I know you still have questions," Sherlock said, bringing John's focus back to the other man. "Ask them now, if you want to."

"Ok…" Why, oh why, did his tongue decide that now would be a good time to get stuck to the roof of his mouth? John glanced up to Sherlock's face and saw that the detective was waiting as patiently as ever, not appearing to be in any hurry to go anywhere and for once completely focussed on John's needs. It felt so surreal that it left John feeling temporarily speechless. "Are you going to use that?" he asked, eyes flicking down to the riding crop beside Sherlock's chair, and wondered at the relief that flooded his system when Sherlock shook his head.

"It's too soon for that," Sherlock elaborated, "and I wanted to see what your reaction to it would be." He held up his right hand so the palm was facing towards John, displaying it for John to look at. "From what I have ascertained, the more traditional position of 'over someone's knee' has never gone out of fashion and I must admit that I am sorely tempted by it." Sherlock leaned forward again until his face was close to John's, so close that John could see the expansion of Sherlock's pupils in the light. "It may interest you to note that I'm looking forward to seeing if I can turn your arse the same shade of red that your face was a moment ago."

 _'Oh God, oh God, oh God…'_  John shut his eyes weakly, his lower lip going in-between his teeth again and blushing hotly at the images in his head; himself spread out over Sherlock's knees, cock rigid between Sherlock's thighs and buttocks smarting from the impact of Sherlock's hand on them. How would it feel? He could almost imagine the sting of it, the heat rising off of his abused flesh, spanked over Sherlock's knee like a disobedient child.

"Is it ok to admit that I like the sound of that?" John whispered into the room, his newly sprung erection testament to his desires.

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on his arousal from where it peeked through the slit at the front of his boxers, taking note of the flush at the head of his cock and the way it jerked against his stomach in almost the exact rhythm as the beating of his heart. "Yes, John," Sherlock said, his own excitement over John's words making his voice breathier, a musky sound that slid down John's nerve-endings in the best of ways. "It is."

_To be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: God, everyone, I am so sorry this took so long to update! The last month has certainly been a tester (a combination of bereavement and redundancy is a hard pill to swallow) but I'm really happy with the way this has turned out so hopefully it meets with everyone's approval! :D 
> 
> I can't say when the next update will be (new job needed, etc), but I won't let this fall by the wayside so don't worry. And thank you all again for your support and lovely comments! They have certainly kept me going the last few weeks so thank you! xxx

John took his hands from the pockets of his jacket and rubbed them together briskly once they got back to the flat, cursing himself for the umpteenth time in forgetting his gloves because of the mad dash it’d been to get to a crime scene earlier that morning. Sherlock had gotten a call from Lestrade saying that another body had been reported on the Tower Bridge by the right-most tower; a young woman had been found hanging from the under-carriage of the road by three bridge-maintenance men during their patrols for external damage.

Except that it hadn’t been what you could call a ‘traditional’ hanging; she’d been tied there by her right foot with her hands cuffed behind her back and her left foot tied to the knee of her right leg. She had no identification on her and she was pronounced dead at the scene, but the circumstances of her death had definitely been unusual enough for Lestrade to call on Sherlock’s expertise. Which had led to both of them standing on the bridge at half eight on a chilly December morning trying to work out what had happened to her.

Forensics had initially determined the cause of death as a suicide, something that unfortunately wouldn’t have gotten the detective out of his flat if it had been in any way ‘normal’, or as normal as a suicide could be. Sherlock himself had been unoptimistic when he’d heard the cause of death, but that changed when Lestrade had described exactly how the woman had been found and John also knew Sherlock couldn’t resist it when he’d heard that Anderson was in charge of forensics. John had been unable to keep the grin off of his face when Sherlock had been his usual self and denounced the opinion entirely (because they couldn’t possibly have found all the facts with Anderson leading the investigation), before crouching down by the body of the woman and examining the bindings of the rope that had been left around her ankle and knee.

Sherlock quickly determined that she’d been hanging there for a while, most of the night actually, and John had informed him that, if that were the case, it would have been long enough for the blood to pool in her brain, ultimately causing blood clots that would result in a stroke. Anderson attempted to ‘persuade’ Sherlock several times that they couldn’t know that until an autopsy had been performed, but John knew it was a pointless venture to try and influence Sherlock’s decision over anything unless you had hard evidence to the contrary. That, and the lack of an autopsy didn’t mean he hadn’t agreed with Sherlock’s initial assessment; if she’d been hanging there for as long as Sherlock was theorising, then the blood accumulation in her skull would have been inevitable, but he hadn’t agreed with Sherlock that more people needed to be hung upside down to assess the reactions of the body to the change of orientation. He even went as far as ordering Sherlock _not_  to do it to himself for the sake of science, because, as much as he was seeing the detective in a whole new way (and regardless of their private life), there were times when one just had to draw the line.   

And yet, although it left him a little shame-faced to admit it, because there had been a _dead_ _woman_ there and it just wasn’t decent for normal conversation let alone where they’d actually been, all John could think about was the rest of his conversation with Sherlock from the night before.

 _The previous night…_     

“So what happens now?” John asked around a dry throat, his erection still twitching through the gap in his boxers and somehow insatiable in its demand for more attention.

Sherlock regarded him for a moment; his eyes lowered to a half mast so only a sliver of colour remained. To all outward appearances it looked as though Sherlock was starting to fall asleep, but there was a subtle tension in the air and John could still feel Sherlock’s eyes on him despite the man’s body language. The silence stretched on between them, and it almost reached the point where John couldn’t decide whether Sherlock was actually going to say anything until Sherlock’s eyes opened again, the detective rubbing the flats of his hands together before bringing his chin to rest on top of them with the fingers of his right hand curled around his left fist. As before, the silence continued and John fought the urge to shift where he was sat; Sherlock hadn’t told him he could move, not yet, and he didn’t want to risk moving in case the scene wasn’t over. He’d read about the punishments that could be inflicted on a submissive for disobeying a command and he knew that he was in no way ready for _any_  of them, despite the fact that they hadn’t established how far they were going to take this new turn in their relationship. Would it go as far as Sherlock choosing what clothes John would wear for the day or would it remain a small kink that they only delved in occasionally? John was only slightly startled by the thought that he knew he couldn’t wait to find out.  

“We’re going to continue this tomorrow,” Sherlock said finally, lowering his hands and scooting forward on the chair until John was within easy reach of his hands. “Before we start anything new I want you to think of two safe words,” he continued, running the index finger of his right hand up John’s collar bone, a feather-light touch that tickled as much as it aroused, leaving John inhaling sharply on the floor. He was desperate for more of this, the touch of Sherlock’s hands on his body, but Sherlock seemed content to torment him with small brushes across his skin, his eyes focussed on John’s face and the expressions that he was unable to hide. No doubt cataloguing each shiver of reaction for future retrieval.   

“The first one should signal that you need a break,” Sherlock said, eyes following the line his fingers made on John’s flesh. “A small breather from the activity we’re doing should you require it; and the second should signal your need for the scene to stop in its entirety. They don’t have to mean anything specific, but I want them to be as unusual as possible. Not the sort of thing that would crop up in a normal conversation.”

John giggled, his face breaking out into a grin and then shuddering when Sherlock pinched the skin above his right nipple. “Since when…” A deep breath to relax tense muscles, then a sharp inhale with the next pinch which was followed by a gentle soothing action on the area. _‘Oh God, please do that again!’_   _“_...are any of our conversations normal?”

Sherlock smiled; a small one that titled one side of his lips and made the predatory look in his eyes much more powerful. “As I said, they should be words that won’t come up in a _normal_  conversation. You have the ability to integrate yourself into social events with minimal effort despite your cohabitation with me. This should be an easy task for you.”

John nodded and watched Sherlock’s face intently as Sherlock took his hands from his body, leaning down towards him and brushing his lips lightly with his own before sliding his tongue into John’s mouth. John didn’t restrain his moan at the contact, sucking on Sherlock’s tongue as it twined with his own in a warm, moist dance that had John’s skin tingling with the sensation of it.

He wanted to lift his hands up and run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, dig them into the other man’s hair and pull Sherlock towards him until they were pressed against each other in all the right places, but he stubbornly kept his hands where they were crossed in front of him. _‘Not allowed to move,’_  he thought to himself, gasping into Sherlock’s lips when the kiss became more heated. _‘Don’t have permission…’_  God, the thought made his body break out in goose-bumps, the very idea that he needed Sherlock’s permission before he could move, and it made him feel hot all over with a flush that had nothing to do with the dying fire at his side.

Sherlock broke the kiss reluctantly (John liked to think that it was with a certain amount of reluctance on Sherlock’s part) and held John’s eyes with his own for a moment, seemingly unwilling to break their connection so soon. “I may not say this as often as you would like,” he murmured, a quiet admission, “but you’ve done well so far, John. I’m very pleased with you.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John whispered, the proper response tumbling from his lips but unable to make the words louder because of the tightness in his chest. He tried not to let it bother him because he knew that Sherlock would understand his fervour, would see it on his face and in the look in his eyes; that Sherlock would see all the emotion that he had for the other man by his physical reactions alone.

“I have one more thing that I want from you,” Sherlock said, his right hand lightly tracing the underside of John’s jaw. “You’ve read about this already, so it shouldn’t come as too great a shock to you, but you’re not allowed to bring yourself to orgasm without my permission.”

John’s focus drastically shifted from where Sherlock’s fingers were on his face to the words that had just been spoken. “You’re jok-” and hastily shut his mouth before he could finish the rest of that sentence. It was very clear that Sherlock wasn’t joking and his retort to the order wouldn’t have gone down well. “Even when we’re not in a scene?” he asked, a small amount of his disbelief covering his tone because he honestly hadn’t thought it would go this far this soon, which was stupid really because he couldn’t remember a time when Sherlock had done something ‘by the book.’ It was just like the detective to dive headlong into a new experiment and their first forays into the dynamics of a Dom/sub relationship would be no different.  

“Yes, John,” Sherlock replied. “I need to know how your body reacts in every possible way to what we’re doing; from the lightest touch of my fingernail to the way your body adjusts to the strike of a flogger.” Sherlock smirked. “Not that denying you of your body’s pleasure doesn’t give me a perverse sense of satisfaction; I like the idea of you desperate for me and, although you may not agree with me in the days to come, I’m certain that you’ll learn to enjoy it as much as I will.”

John remained silent, thinking of the hours of endless waiting ahead; the almost painful urge in his groin that demanded satisfaction because this whole evening on its own was enough to fuel John’s wanking fantasies for _months_ _._  That, and also knowing that not a night went by where he didn’t get off at least once (with or without another body there), knowing that he wasn’t even allowed that anymore, was just torture, pure and simple. Sherlock had said that it would only be with his permission though, so he would be there watching John take his pleasure, his eyes taking in the way John’s hands moved on his length, starting with light, teasing touches and moving onto broader, firmer strokes with just the right amount of slickness leaking from his slit- _‘_ _Fuck, stop it, John, just fucking stop thinking about it!’_

“This is going to be hard,” John murmured and grinned when he realised what he’d just said before yawning widely, his tiredness creeping up on him and making him yearn to stretch his body out to relieve his cramping muscles.

“No pun intended,” Sherlock said mildly, glancing down at his watch when John finished his yawn. “It’s gone midnight, not that late for a Friday night, but I wouldn’t be a responsible Dom if I didn’t allow you to recover from what has been a strenuous evening. Incidentally, you will be sleeping in my bed from now on; I sleep on the side closest to the door so don’t be surprised if I move you during the night if you’ve taken up the whole of the mattress. You can stand now and don’t forget your clothes on the sofa.”

“Are you coming with me?” John asked, getting his legs up underneath him with a little difficulty because they’d gone to sleep and watching as Sherlock stood up from his chair.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, taking hold of one of John’s hands in his own after John picked up his clothing. “Just because I usually don’t participate in sentiment doesn’t mean that I can’t see the potential benefits of it once in a while. Sharing a bed with you should prove to be extremely advantageous.” Sherlock smirked again. “In more ways than one, I’m sure.”    

 _Present d_ _ay…_    

Before John could give any more thought on the events of the previous night, Sherlock came into the flat after him with a great swirl of his coat as it was removed and placed on the hook on the back of the door. The scarf was quick to follow, and the gloves, until Sherlock was back in his normal attire and almost physically vibrating with an energy that had come from successfully solving the case of the hanged woman.

John smiled as he continued blowing warmth into the cup of his hands because, although it certainly hadn’t been the fastest case Sherlock had ever solved, it had been one of the more rewarding ones; one with a puzzle to it, rather than just a dull murder of passion, and it would certainly make a good read on John’s blog later. He couldn’t understand how Sherlock thought any murder was ever dull, but a murder of passion by suicide… now that was a different story.

The woman had intentionally hung herself upside down in mimicry of a tarot card known as ‘The Hanged Man’. Sherlock didn’t immediately delve into the specifics of what the card meant, but his excitement over finding not just one, but two tarot cards, had been infectious. ‘The Hanged Man’ had been paired with the ‘Death’ card and, despite the Yard’s pessimistic reaction to the find, Sherlock himself had been intrigued.

“Finding these two cards together doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ll die in a certain way,” he’d explained to John. “‘The Hanged Man’ generally represents a release of emotion and control in the Tarot world; the suggestion that you allow fate to guide your life instead of struggling against it and having an acceptance of where you are and what has happened to you.” 

Sherlock had held up the ‘Death’ card, its graphic depiction of Death with his sceptre making John nervous. “When paired with this card, most Tarot readers will tell you that they represent the end of something old and the start of something new. This woman has either taken it literally, which I doubt, or she has taken it as a threat. Given the level of detail she’s put into making her appearance the same of ‘The Hanged Man’, it’s obvious that she knew what the card meant because she didn’t struggle once she was in her bonds. She accepted her death until the very last moment.”

Once this had been explained to Lestrade, along with instructions to locate the owner of the tarot deck from which those cards came from (Sherlock had told them to start with the dead woman’s sister and ask for the location of a ‘Madame Trinity’), Sherlock had left the scene with John hot on his heels, shouting over his shoulder for Lestrade to text him once the suspect had been apprehended.

“I didn’t know you dabbled in Tarot,” John said to Sherlock, watching as the other man paced the living room from the windows to his chair and back to the windows with his hands pressed together under his chin.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and turned his head to look at John. “Experiment. I wanted to calculate the ratios of actually receiving a positive reading to a negative one, how the deck could be rigged to show certain cards instead of at random. Child’s play.” He walked up to John then and took his hands between his own, using the warmth of his own body to help restore the circulation in John’s fingers. “You really should have brought your gloves,” Sherlock chided him, stepping closer still until their bodies were shy of just pressing against each other.

John looked up at Sherlock’s face and then back down to where his hands were clasped between the detective’s. “Well, we didn’t want to be late, did we?”

“Hmmmm…” Sherlock began to rub his hands against John’s in an effort to restore the warmth more quickly, using the friction created to aid the process. “Despite this little mishap, you did well with the crime scene today.”

John smiled. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” Like it wasn’t anything that he was growing accustomed to now. Sherlock’s intervention at crime scenes over the past year meant that John had had the opportunity to practise the deducing skills that the other man was inadvertently teaching him, and the feeling of getting something right, making Sherlock feel proud of him, wasn’t something that he thought he’d ever want less of. “I do have an excellent teacher.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to his from where they’d been on John’s hands, the look one of quiet assessment. “Are you suggesting that you are indebted to me, John?”

The question was simple but the implications behind it, the unspoken entendre, were the things that made John feel weak at the knees, making him struggle not to squirm under the intense scrutiny of the man who saw everything. “Maybe…” 

Sherlock’s hands stilled in their motion, the fingers curling around John’s in a loose grip, with Sherlock’s eyes holding John’s for a moment longer before he moved his face closer to John’s head and let his breath ghost over the shell of John’s right ear. Sherlock didn’t say anything like John had expected him to, just allowing them both to feel the moistness of his breath on the side of John’s face until all he knew was the gentle inhale and exhale of Sherlock’s body.

Sudden warmth on the left side of his groin made John gasp at the contact as a hand, Sherlock’s right, slid closer to the erection that he didn’t know he had. Last night, the first night of his enforced denial, he’d been in agony; he’d gone to bed at Sherlock’s command with sore nipples and a hard cock, both of them vying for his attention with equal amounts of pain and pleasure, the dual sensations playing together until he couldn’t figure out where one began and the other ended. It had taken a stern look from Sherlock to make him stop fidgeting underneath the covers, his hands twisted in the sheets above him and whimpering when the French silk (of course it had been French silk, Sherlock would only ever have the best) brushed across his chest and groin in maddening strokes.

The only thing he had going for himself was the fact that he hadn’t begged, not really. His body might have had other ideas, longing to press himself to Sherlock’s lean form and rub one off on him until they both fell asleep from exhaustion, but his mind had been stronger, especially when Sherlock had looked at him with praise over his handling of the situation. In those cases he didn’t even need to think about it. He could have the minute or so of physical bliss or he could have the look Sherlock had given him before he’d drifted to sleep, one of supreme satisfaction and approval. There wasn’t any contest.

Sherlock’s hand continued its exploration, rubbing along the width of his leg between his hip and groin, his thumb curling over John’s hipbone before sliding back and just letting a fragment of sensation reach his erection which was already at full mast and straining against the zip of his jeans. John kept trying to remember to breathe, unintentionally holding it in when Sherlock’s hand drifted close to the centre of his arousal and releasing it when Sherlock again moved his hand away, although with a shorter period of time between each pass. It helped, somewhat, that each lingering caress was becoming stronger, firmer, something he might be able to thrust up into if Sherlock gave him half the chance, and in his ear he could hear Sherlock’s breath quicken in response to the noises he was making, the quiet gasps and whispered pleas.

John’s next inhale escaped him in a shuddering sigh when Sherlock’s hand finally stopped at his groin, pressing the heel of his hand against the length of John’s cock and teasingly stroking up and down, enough friction to enable John to feel it through two layers of clothing but not enough to bring him to orgasm. “You’re so hard, John,” Sherlock whispered, his hand easily riding the reactive thrust of John’s hips to his words. “You want this, don’t you? You want my hands on you, making a tight sheath that you can fuck into.”

John moaned aloud at the words, Sherlock’s use of the word ‘fuck’ acting like the fist he’d been just been talking about and squeezing his cock beneath his trousers. God, Sherlock had the prettiest voice, deep and sensual, so hearing any cuss word come out of his mouth was enough to push John to breaking point. 

“But you don’t really want it to end this way,” Sherlock said, his voice a low drawl. “Perhaps another time, but not right now.” He drew back from John’s ear and pressed his face close to John’s throat so that, when he spoke, his mouth was just millimetres away from John’s pulse point. He inhaled deeply and John felt the flush on his face rise to the tips of his ears when he realised that Sherlock was scenting him, his cologne from the night before, the smells of London which still clung to his skin and the faint underscoring of sweat that was increasing as the stimulation to his body continued. “When I step away, I want you to take your clothes off,” Sherlock said, gliding his other hand around John’s waist. “And when you’re naked,” his hand stopped on John’s right buttock and squeezed the muscle beneath it, “I want you over my knee.”

“Oh _yes_ ,” John panted, eyes sliding shut at the vivid image of himself spread over Sherlock’s legs. “I want that… Please, let me do that for you.”

Sherlock pressed a single, closed-mouth kiss against John’s neck before stepping away and taking his hands with him, and John had a second to regret the loss of those hands until he was started shedding his clothes, trying to take his time and be neat about it because he had a hard enough time cleaning the flat with Sherlock’s mess, let alone his own. Sherlock didn’t give any indication that he wanted John to go any faster, although his face seemed to grow darker, more intense as each article was removed. Throughout the process Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off of John’s body, following the movement of John’s fingers when they finished undressing his torso and started working on his trousers. The button and zipper were easy to deal with, his fingers unintentionally brushing over the head of his cock through his boxers and shuddering at the wetness which was leaking from him through the fabric. The faint hitch John heard in Sherlock’s breathing showed him that the other man had seen it too.

Unlike the first time where he’d been undressed by Sherlock, removing his clothes himself took no time at all, and soon he was standing there in the living room with not a stitch on, waiting for his next direction. The flat was still a bit chilly from where they hadn’t stoked the fire before they left, and John could see his skin reacting to it when his hairs stood on end, an unwanted tremor racking his frame when the goose-bumps turned to shivers.

Sherlock stepped into his space and took his right hand, leading him further into the living room and up to Sherlock’s chair. “Stay still,” Sherlock murmured, and John did as asked while he watched Sherlock turn and start a kindling for the fire. Once the fire caught on the logs and coals, a much needed heat began to spread through the room and John felt his muscles relax from where he was standing as the warmth took away the chill from his body and replaced it. Sherlock turned back to him once he was satisfied with the fire and a guard had been pulled across to stop the embers spitting out onto the carpet, stepping just slightly away from the hearth so that, even in the light shining through from the windows, he could still see the shimmer of the flames leaping onto John’s body.

John hoped Sherlock liked what he saw and, by the deepening hue of the other man’s eyes, he was guessing that his body was being visually savoured by a man who absorbed every detail with all of his cognitive ability. “Have you decided on your safe words?” Sherlock asked, sliding his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers and leaning back against the mantle, a relaxed posture that John wanted to go up to and slide against. He’d never seen Sherlock look this relaxed before but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t in control; he’d learnt early on that Sherlock rarely did things for no reason when it came to his own body, including the sparse eating during cases, so the way he was now had been done to garner a certain reaction in John.

If it was to make John want him even more, then Sherlock had passed with full marks. “Um, yes… I have,” he answered, suddenly shy in his choices; what if Sherlock didn’t approve of them? “For a break I chose ‘Warten’. For the scene to stop, the word is ‘Arrêter’.”

There was a moment where Sherlock seemed to absorb the words and their English translations. Then he smiled. “Very good, John. Warten and Arrêter it is.” He pushed himself off the mantle and went to his chair, sitting down so that his buttocks were just perched on the edge of the seat with his knees bent at an almost perfect right angle. “Lie across me, face down, with your feet towards the fire.”

Oh, God, this was it. This was actually happening. John came around to the side requested of him and, with Sherlock’s assistance, managed to get himself draped over the other man’s knees, Sherlock spreading his thighs to give John more support in the position that he wanted. John suspected that Sherlock had also opened his legs to prevent John’s erection from receiving any sort of stimulation; getting into the position had been a little tricky and his cock had brushed against Sherlock’s trouser legs more than once, sending jolts through him at each contact. Now there was nothing there but the air that surrounded him and that left him positively _hurting_  with want.

Neither of them spoke for a moment and it gave John the time he needed to relax in the position, dropping his shoulders down to reduce the ache in them and allowing his hands to brush the floor. The support being given by Sherlock’s legs meant that he wasn’t arching his spine, so he wouldn’t have to worry about back pain either, at least for a time. He couldn’t ignore the fact that he felt extremely vulnerable in this position though, and Sherlock must have sensed it because his hands were gently soothing their way from John’s thighs to the small of his back, broad strokes that relaxed any remaining tension in the muscles.         

No touches had been made to his arse yet, just along his back and thighs, but John was prepared for it when one of Sherlock’s hands (the right, he was guessing by the position of the thumb) gently cupped one cheek and squeezed it. Women had often grabbed his arse in an attempt to try and pull him deeper into them during sex, but no man had ever touched him there with almost the same intent, a possessive touch that set his nerve endings tingling and made his body shake where it lay. “Steady,” Sherlock murmured, laying his right hand on the small of John’s back.

John almost whimpered at the heat coming from Sherlock’s hand but fought it back at the last minute. “Sorry,” he panted, hanging his head.

“Ssshhh,” Sherlock quietened him, sliding that hand back down to John’s buttocks again and stroking over one, then the other, alternating between the two. “No need to apologise. Your reactions are untried, pure. No other man has dared to touch you here,” another squeeze, firmer than the others to drive home the point, “and yet here you are.”

 _‘Like a child,’_ John thought, finishing off Sherlock’s sentence in his head.

...No.

Not like a child.

Like a man who had chosen to be here, a man who wanted to be here. The distinction felt very important and Sherlock hummed his approval when the thought allowed John to sink deeper into the scene they were in, any remaining physical tension ebbing away until all that was left was John’s body and the places he was pressed against Sherlock in his nudity. There was something delicious about being petted over another person’s knee when you were naked while they were fully clothed; when that person was Sherlock, the feeling only intensified.

“I want you to choose a number that will decide how many slaps you receive,” Sherlock said, his voice soft but commanding. “You can decide between one and ten. After each strike, I want to hear you say the corresponding number. Understand?”

 “Yes, Sherlock,” John whispered, loud enough for Sherlock to hear it. God, how did he choose? One strike wouldn’t be enough for him to decide whether he liked it or not, but ten didn’t sound like enough either. Did he go for the higher number and hope Sherlock would take it easy on him, or would each one be as powerful as the first, forcing heat into his flesh so that, by the time he reached ten, he’d be begging Sherlock to stop? “Ten,” he decided, nodding to himself. “Ten please, Sherlock.”

“Ten,” Sherlock repeated, solidifying the number in John’s head. “Don’t lose count.” With barely a pause, John felt Sherlock lift his right hand before bringing it down again on the flesh of his left buttock.

John groaned deeply in his chest with the first slap, the sound of Sherlock’s hand hitting his body loud in his ears. The first one hadn’t been soft at all; no ice breaker into what was an untried area between the two of them. No, Sherlock’s hand had landed hard, forcing the pain into the left cheek of his arse and leaving it stinging at the contact, making John unsure whether he wanted another one just like that or whether it was time to stop. “One,” he murmured, his voice hoarse in his throat.

The word had barely left his mouth before the second slap hit on his right cheek and John’s fingers curled into fists under him as the pain flooded up to his brain and made his eyes roll back into his head. Or it could have been the endorphins. Yes, probably the endorphins… “Two.”

A third one, this time on the same spot as before, and having the same area smacked again really woke John up; he cried out and dipped his back, unintentionally pushing his arse up towards Sherlock as the fire tore through him. “Oh my God,” he moaned, his fingers desperately clenching under him as his cock throbbed with need. “Th- three.”

“God, John, you should see yourself,” Sherlock said breathily, rubbing the flat of his index finger over the area he’d just hit. “You respond so beautifully because you were made for this, weren’t you. This is where you were meant to be all along.” John felt Sherlock shift position above him so that the detective’s mouth was above his neck. “Aren’t I lucky I found you first.”

“Oh God, Sherlock, again,” John groaned, dipping his back again to try and press himself against Sherlock’s hand. “Hit me again.”

The fourth strike on the opposite cheek held everything that John wanted it to; the feel of Sherlock’s hand on him, hurting him, forcing out all thought and leaving only base instinct behind. His breath was panting from him in sharp bursts from his chest, his mouth dry and forgotten in the onslaught of _too much_ and _not enough._ What was left of his conscious thought knew that he’d pushed his head back until his throat was taut, exposing his neck in his desire to submit to a stronger hand. Oh fuck, they’d only just started and already John was in _pieces._

The following smacks happened in quick succession to different areas, making John cry out with each one and his erection burn almost as much as his arse was. “How many is that, John?” Sherlock asked, smoothing his hand over John’s thighs and dipping between them in teasing, distracting touches.

“Seven… Fuck, seven…” John’s legs automatically opened of their own accord, as far as his current position would allow, trying to give Sherlock more room to explore; Sherlock infuriatingly knew what he was trying to achieve and kept his touches minimal, wanting to make him work for it.

“Three more to go,” Sherlock said with his voice like dark honey; John whimpered, his body breaking out in a flush at Sherlock’s tone. Jesus, if this was what Sherlock sounded like during sex…

The next two hits forced groans from the depths of John’s chest, his mind breaking down with the sensory pleasure of having this finally happen to him. Sherlock’s hand had to be stinging by now but he hadn’t let up the pace or the pressure, and John couldn’t help but writhe a bit where he lay because the mental image of Sherlock’s handprints on his arse made his groin burn in the most pleasant of ways. Was it possible he could actually come from this? Without even being touched?

The tenth and final strike, harder than the rest by far (Sherlock must have really put some effort into it or was it because his skin felt like it was on fire anyway?), and John very nearly screamed if he’d had enough air in his lungs to expel it. Unbidden, he felt his cock jerk between his legs, once, twice, and then he cried out again in surprise, realising that he was coming, Jesus, he was _coming_ and he didn’t think he’d ever _stop,_ it was too strong.

He’d only just finished his orgasm, his cock still hard and jutting underneath him when he felt Sherlock move. The detective’s hands came around John’s body and supported him almost effortlessly, moving him from Sherlock’s lap until he was on the floor with his arms out in front of him and his stomach settling on the wet patch he’d left behind. “Don’t move,” Sherlock ordered him, voice rough and demanding, and John shivered when he heard the noise of Sherlock’s fingers undoing the clasp on his trousers. Before long the noise of Sherlock’s moan drifted down to him, followed by the slick sound of what must have been Sherlock stroking himself and the thought was almost enough to set John off again; the image of Sherlock bloody Holmes wanking off over his body.

When Sherlock finally reached his peak, it was barely preceded by a gasp and a moan before John felt hot wetness land on the places of his back, each jet of semen aimed with precision even as Sherlock was in the throes of what had to be an intense orgasm. John sobbed his relief when he felt the evidence of Sherlock’s pleasure on him, proving beyond a doubt that the other man was as affected by this as he was, perhaps more; God, he hoped it was more. The last of Sherlock’s release leaked onto him, leaving him with sticky warmth on his skin that he didn’t want to lose because it was _Sherlock_ on him, marking him, staking his claim. When had the idea suddenly become so important?

Over the roaring in his ears he heard Sherlock step over his body and crouch down at his front, gently easing John up until he was on his elbows and tilting his head up enough so he could look at Sherlock’s face. And what a face it was, still flushed from excitement and arousal, and all John wanted to do was kiss him, kiss that beautiful mouth until they were both breathless from it.

After he’d gotten his wish, with the taste of Sherlock still fresh in his mouth, John realised that he hadn’t been given permission to come; but Sherlock calmly took his face in his hands and placed a finger over John’s lips when he went to speak. “No words, John,” Sherlock murmured, stroking the fingertip over his mouth. “Just enjoy the aftermath.”

Sighing deeply, John closed his eyes and pushed his face into Sherlock’s hands, breathing a moan of relief when Sherlock pressed gentle kisses over his face and stayed close as they both came down from the high. “Thank you,” he whispered against Sherlock’s lips, pressing their mouths together briefly. “Thank you for giving me this.”

Sherlock chuckled, lowering a hand and intertwining the fingers of it with John’s. “The pleasure is all mine.” The detective shifted again, moving to sit cross-legged on the floor. “You do know what you’ve opened yourself up for though, don’t you.”

John tensed where he lay, suddenly uneasy. “What?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him in amusement. “You’ve just proved without a doubt that you can come without your cock being touched. It would be safe for you to assume that I’m very much looking forward to seeing what else I can do to you to garner the same reaction.” A hand drifted down John’s chest, lightly circling one of John’s nipples and causing John’s eyes to flutter shut at the stimulation. “Yes,” Sherlock purred, the light strokes turning into a flick over the hardened nub and making John shudder. “Very much indeed.”  

_To be continued_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: Did you really think you’d get rid of me that easily? ;-) 
> 
> In all honesty, it’s good to be back with the next chapter that I’ve been working on for the past month and a bit so I hope it meets with everyone’s approval. Thank you all for your comments and for being so patient with me! Real life is getting better now but I still haven’t found a new job yet so I hope you can hang on for a bit longer with Perihelion. It will be completed, I promise!

The first thing John became aware of was the intense heat inside his body. He knew that he was still half asleep so the feeling itself was a drowsy one, cushioned in layers of silk and an absurdly soft mattress that gave him the impression he’d been lying on a cloud instead of a bed, but he knew that those feelings weren’t the ones that had pulled him from his dreams. Focusing his mind, he established that the heat wasn’t coming from his body regulating his own temperature, nor was it from the mattress he was lying on or the quilts that were tucked in around his hips. It was coming from an outside source, the bed’s other occupant in fact, and even without opening his eyes he knew it was Sherlock. The other man was pressed along his back from neck to ankle, as naked as John was, and a firm presence to anchor him in what was an undiluted atmosphere of indulgence.

As comfortable as his body was in its current state, that very feeling was enough to give John pause in his thoughts and make him wonder exactly how it was that he came to be there. It would be wrong to say that he regretted anything that had happened between Sherlock and himself (nothing could be further from the truth of it), but at the same time John could safely say that he’d never seen this coming. He was in bed with a self-professed high functioning sociopath, who had clearly displayed no qualms for personal boundaries, and he couldn’t have been happier about it.

He thought about his life from before, when he’d been wounded and flown back to England on an army pension with a therapist who didn’t really didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, and his life now. For some reason, Sherlock had infiltrated every aspect of his life from the moment they met, deducing his recent past by the way that John had stood in Bart’s and almost everything in-between. No stone left unturned, but he’d been intrigued rather than annoyed by the flamboyancy of his new flatmate and had been desperately curious by the end to know more about the man who had taken an interest in him. Dull, boring John Watson who had nothing happening to him until the day he met Sherlock Holmes.

Months had passed since their first meeting, with John’s limp fixed on the first day, over a dozen cases solved and blogged with the detective, and a distressing number of girlfriends who had been scared off or shunned in Sherlock’s favour when the demand for John’s presence superseded his desire for a relationship that would last. And now this; the two of them lying naked together in Sherlock’s bed as though it wasn’t anything they hadn’t done before. As if John hadn’t vehemently defended his sexuality when he found out he would be Sherlock’s submissive for the evening and hadn’t had a small crisis when Sherlock found out about John’s interest in him, admittedly something that was still a surprise to him regardless of where he was now.

As if the feel of Sherlock’s morning erection pressing into his back wasn’t alarming in any way, just physical evidence of the other man’s excitement for John’s body and perhaps a future indicator of Sherlock’s intent. To have John bound on his front, legs spread, loose and _open_  for the push and thrust of Sherlock’s fingers…

John shuddered where he laid, his fingers curling in the sheets as he thought of it happening and the vulnerability that it inspired.

When he seriously considered it, the act of being with another man and the implications of what that meant between them, as he was doing so now, John didn’t think he was gay, not really. The deduction Sherlock had made at the start of their relationship had been startlingly accurate because John wasn’t attracted to men like he was to women, but as with everything else in his crazy world, Sherlock was a different breed to anyone else he’d ever met. He couldn’t think of a single person who wouldn’t be attracted to Sherlock in some way or other, drawn into his orbit and helplessly baited by the danger and loosening of moral and ethical boundaries that the man represented. Sherlock got away with murder, almost literally in some cases (John couldn’t stop his smile of remembrance when he’d heard Lestrade ask Sherlock how many times the CIA agent had fallen out the window because he’d been stupid enough to hurt Mrs Hudson), but John supposed it did help that he got the job done in the end.

The fact that Sherlock had charisma and looks on his side (because he really was bloody gorgeous, for a bloke) were bonuses that John was only too happy to accept.     

The sensation of fingertips tracing along his skin slowly filtered through the sleep-induced haze that John was still under (a direct result of a restful night), with the touch being light enough to be delicate but not ticklish, halting his mental assessment of himself in its tracks. He kept his breathing low and even, allowing his awareness to follow the fingers as they moved from his jaw-line on his right side and gently down to his arm which was exposed to the air. They paused at his hand, stroking across his knuckles before sliding from it entirely and settling across his silk-covered hip.

With almost no warning, hot, moist air breathed over the nape of his neck ahead of the lips that followed, pressing against his skin reverently before pursing on his flesh and lightly sucking, the slick slide of a tongue dragging over nerve-endings from the top of his shoulder to the sensitive patch of skin just under his ear lobe. He couldn’t stop his breath from hitching when that spot was lavished with attention, a different warmth suffusing his body and causing the length at his groin to stir under the sheets in slow pulses.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock murmured; his voice gravelly from sleep. “Good morning…”    

John arched his body back against Sherlock’s, tilting his head to the side to encourage Sherlock’s affections and to provide him with further areas to explore, sighing when his hips bumped back into Sherlock’s and he again encountered the hot, thick press of Sherlock’s erection digging into the small of his back. “Good morning,” he replied, his lips tilting up at the corners when he felt Sherlock smile against his neck and thrust his hips forward against John’s skin in an attempt to find more stimulation for his own body. “Much better than an alarm clock,” John elaborated, gasping when Sherlock’s tongue slid up to the area behind his ear and licked at it.

“I know,” Sherlock said, pausing to speak the words directly into John’s ear. “Have you seen the time this morning?”   

It took some effort on his part, but eventually John was able to centre his attention on the hands of the clock which were faintly glowing their fluorescence in the darkness of the room, his eyes widening when he realised what the time was. “Your alarm was meant to go off five minutes ago…”

Sherlock chuckled. “Once I knew you were asleep I turned it off. You have an unconscious habit of tensing when an alarm wakes you, so much that you carry it with you when you get ready for work.” The hand on John’s hip shifted again, gliding down over his uncovered stomach and teasing at the edge where the silk covered his groin. “You must admit, this is a much better way of waking up in the morning.”

John couldn’t help but agree with Sherlock’s assessment, reaching his right hand up and tangling his fingers into Sherlock’s curls in an attempt to bring Sherlock’s mouth back against his neck. “Can’t have a clock undoing all the hard work you did yesterday,” he said, sighing when Sherlock began laying kisses on his shoulder. “I’ve not felt this relaxed in ages.” And when he said it, John knew he meant every word.

Yesterday after his spanking, Sherlock had taken care of the soreness left by laying John face-down on their bed (was it theirs because they were sharing one now?) and applying Arnica cream to the cheeks of his arse. John, being a doctor, knew that the actual effectiveness of homeopathic medicine was still open to debate, and probably would be for years to come unless accurate testing was completed, but when Sherlock had spread the cream on with the same sensitivity from when Sherlock had been checking his nipples, John had to give it some credit. The cream had felt wonderful on his skin, leeching the heat from his flesh and soothing tense muscle that had yet to realise that the infliction of pain was over.

Not that the pain had been a punishment… No, not by a long shot.                

“Speaking of which,” Sherlock murmured, almost as though he’d read John’s mind, taking his hand from John’s stomach and reaching between them until he could softly cup John’s right buttock. “How are you feeling now?”

John winced at first when he felt Sherlock’s hand on his skin, expecting more pain at the contact then what he actually received. Maybe Arnica cream really did work after all… “Not too bad this morning,” he replied truthfully, turning his head so he could look Sherlock in the eye without dislodging his hand. “Don’t know how I’m going to survive the shift today though. Sitting down is going to be interesting.”

Sherlock smirked. “Something for you to remember yesterday by.” The hand he had on John’s buttock squeezed briefly before he gently raked the fingernail of his index finger across the skin, and that did make John wince. “Hmmm, yes, you’re so sensitive now. Just the slightest touch,” another slide of that nail, God, did Sherlock ever trim them? “And you can’t help but respond to it.”

“If you keep doing that I won’t be able to sit down at all,” John said, tugging at Sherlock’s curls where he still had a hand buried in them. “I’m ok with admitting that I’ll need a recovery from this before we start anything new.”

“And what if I decided to focus my attention elsewhere?”    

‘ _Oh, Christ, fu-!’_  John barely had time to discern the contact for what it was before Sherlock’s finger made another sweep along the crack of his arse, not deep enough to touch his opening but the intent behind it was clear and God, how did Sherlock do that when John was only thinking of it two minutes ago?

“You are aware that, just because you’re a little sore in one area, it doesn’t mean that I haven’t catalogued the full range of activities that I can do your body,” Sherlock said, his voice deepening until it was almost a growl in his throat. He reached up with a hand and pulled John’s fingers out of his hair, shifting position so he could lay John on his back with John looking up at Sherlock with wide eyes.

He shivered at the look in Sherlock’s eyes as they roamed over his flesh, bared to the room when Sherlock pushed the sheets back from their bodies and leaving them exposed to each other. Jesus, the man’s eyes were something to get lost in when Sherlock looked like this. Almost translucent, fathomless…

 _Hungry_ …    

“I want to own you, John,” Sherlock said, leaning over him until their bodies were touching, John unconsciously allowing one of Sherlock’s legs to slide between his so the detective could press a knee up against the underside of John’s scrotum, now drawn up tight to his groin with his arousal. “I want every inch of you laid out beneath me, trembling, desperate…” Sherlock lowered his head so when he was speaking his lips were a hairs-breadth away from John’s.“Submissive…”

“Yes,” John whispered with the hiss of the word drawn out when Sherlock shifted his knee again to gently rub at his groin, feeling his own desire rise up inside him. Dark, forbidden fantasies that flitted across his vision with a teasing seduction that made his body writhe underneath the press of Sherlock’s. “Make me, Sherlock,” he murmured, staring into the detective’s eyes and allowing a small hint of challenge to fill his voice. “Make me want to submit to you.” Contrary to his words, his legs spread wider of their own accord, allowing Sherlock to lower both his legs in the gap John was providing to bring their groins flush against each other.

“I don’t have to,” Sherlock murmured, pressing his face into John’s neck and scraping his teeth along the skin there, pumping his hips in shallow thrusts that rubbed them against each other in all the right places. “I don’t even need to force you. Your body wants to submit on its own without your intervention.”

John moaned, the sound captured by Sherlock’s mouth when their lips pressed together with a passion that shook John down to his core. The feel of Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth was a soft, wet sensation which completely juxtaposed the hard, rough edge of Sherlock’s cock rubbing against his own, the motion needy in desire, but not desperate.

When Sherlock pulled back from the kiss to look at John’s face, he knew that Sherlock had complete control of all his faculties even in the midst of what felt like an ardent make-out session and that in itself was enough to make John a little more desperate himself. He wanted to make Sherlock as crazy for this as he was, but he was still unsure as to how much he could push the boundaries of their relationship before Sherlock drew the line. How much control would he have as a submissive before Sherlock took it back from him?

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock said, sitting back in order to grip John wrist’s in his hands so he could pin John’s hands above his head, resuming their slow grind once the desired position had been achieved. “Focus on me, on what we’re doing together.”

“Not much else I can do,” John panted, arching his back to push up into Sherlock’s body so he could feel the slick slide of their skin against each other. He flexed his hands experimentally, feeling the tight restriction of Sherlock’s fingers around his wrists, and although he knew he could get out of this position if he wished, he felt no such inclination to do so. He was by no means helpless (Sherlock hadn’t tied his legs down and the other man wasn’t stupid enough to think he could hold John down like this against his will), but it suddenly struck him that that was the whole point.

It wasn’t so much about losing control to another person.    

It was about giving that control up to them.    

“Oh God,” John said, his words almost choking him as the realisation (something he was sure he’d had once before), lodged in his mind and body, giving him a whole new insight into the grip around his wrists. “God, Sherlock, I…”

“Yes, you understand now, don’t you,” Sherlock said, his eyes intensifying on John’s face as he felt the shaking of John’s body beneath him, flexing his fingers around John’s wrists once to remind them both of where his hands were, not that John needed any reminding. Not when the hold of Sherlock’s hands now tensed and relaxed in rhythm with the motion of his hips, a languid movement that had John panting for more. “I could tie you down to this bed if I wanted to,” Sherlock continued, his voice husky from the exertion of their grinding. “I could restrict every one of your movements until all you could do was focus on your breathing.” There was a harsher press around John’s wrists as Sherlock tightened his fingers for a second longer before releasing them altogether, leaving John’s hands where they were. “But we both know that if I want your body in a certain way, all I need to do is put you there. And you’ll stay, won’t you, John. You’ll stay just where I want you even though you know it’s going to hurt.”

John moaned desperately at the words, pressing his hands into the pillow above his head to stop them from moving because he so badly wanted to touch Sherlock; hair, face, mouth... It didn’t matter where and he was certain that the slow build of pressure in his groin would drive him mad long before he was given permission to move. “Please, Sherlock,” John whispered, using the leverage from his legs to thrust his hips up and against Sherlock’s groin, the hateful, logical part of his mind unaware of what the time was but unable to forget that he was needed early at the surgery. As much as he was enjoying himself at this moment, it would ruin the whole morning if he was taken into Sarah’s office _again_  for tardiness.

“You don’t need to worry about the time,” Sherlock said, riding the movement of John’s body to deny them both of the friction. “The clock is incorrect.”

It took a while for the words to filter through the lust that John was experiencing but, even so, he could only stare at Sherlock in confusion. “Incorrect?”

“Hmmm-mmmm,” Sherlock affirmed, eyes alight with humour. “It’s been set an hour ahead.”    

“An hour…?” John shut his eyes as another wave of pleasure flowed through him, the question stopping mid-way when it occurred to him that the clock wasn’t controlled by any radio towers, giving Sherlock the opportunity to change it as he saw fit.  

“Yes,” Sherlock said and John could hear the smirk in his voice. “The time is actually twenty to six, not seven. By my calculations,” another slow thrust which made John groan, “you have an extra fifty minutes on top of the limit you normally allow yourself to get to work on time.” All movement stopped, prompting John to open his eyes to see what Sherlock was up to, but all the detective was doing was grinning at him. “We have yet to establish whether or not our shower can accommodate two people.”

John smiled at the suspicious glint in Sherlock’s eyes. “Don’t be an arse; you already know the answer to that.”   

“Then let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we?” Displaying the grace that John was continually envious of, Sherlock pushed himself up from John’s body and stood next to the bed, extending a hand out for John to take, gloriously naked and completely unashamed of it.

It was a moment suspended in time for John as he looked upon Sherlock’s nudity, right from the top of his head to the base of his feet. He’d only ever been in Sherlock’s presence once before when the other man was devoid of everything but his sheet, and even then he’d tried to not look when Mycroft had stepped on Sherlock’s only barrier from nudity to stop him from storming right out of Buckingham Palace.

Now though, it was a completely different situation. He’d always known that Sherlock was fit despite his leanness, but to have it on display and to know it was on show _for him_  was slightly awe-inspiring. Unlike John’s stockier build from when he’d been in the army, Sherlock had the look of someone who’d decided where they wanted their muscles beforehand and had placed them on their body exactly as they wished them to be. John couldn’t be jealous though; he knew Sherlock was attracted to him (one didn’t need to look at Sherlock’s erection to deduce the evidence of that) and he knew he was definitely attracted to Sherlock, both physically and mentally.

Although he had to admit to a slight bout of nerves when he saw Sherlock’s erection for what was the first time. It was one thing to have it pressed against your body in bed with a sheet covering you, but it was quite another to view it from a distance. Proportionally there wasn’t anything wrong with the size of it (in neither length nor girth in comparison to the man who owned it), but nevertheless it still made John’s eyes water when he thought of where Sherlock would probably want to put it.

He’d seen people take larger ones (having seen his fair share of anal porn involving larger-than-life penises which hadn’t been enhanced in post-production – one had to be grateful for amateur home videos), so he knew that the human body was perfectly capable of accepting something of Sherlock’s size. John just wasn’t sure if it was ok as a first time for someone like him, who’d never considered the possibility of it happening to him until he found himself in his first gay relationship. Sure, it hadn’t been on the cards when they’d first started this, but he couldn’t say for certain that Sherlock wouldn’t insist on it eventually and he wondered whether it was even allowed for a sub to take their Dom when they weren’t in a scene. Was it something Sherlock would allow or had he, like John, had no experience with it? He found it disconcerting that Sherlock could deduce his love life (or his lack of it) just by looking at him, but, to John, Sherlock’s sexual exploits were as elusive as the workings of the man’s mind and he knew he definitely wasn’t sure that he was comfortable with the idea of Sherlock being with anyone else. _‘When did that happen?’_

Sherlock’s fingers closed in on themselves in front of him, leaving just his index finger loosely pointing towards John. John looked up at Sherlock’s face, worried that the other man was retracting his offer, but Sherlock merely raised his hand in front of his chest and crooked his finger, beckoning John to follow as he backed out of the bedroom to head for the shower.

John blinked at the image of Sherlock crooking a finger at him, and at the searing look Sherlock had given him before he’d disappeared around the door frame, for what must have been a full minute before hastily scrambling to his feet in a flurry of limbs that he knew looked nothing like the way Sherlock had risen from the bed just moments earlier. They both knew that Mrs Hudson was unlikely to be up at this time of the morning so John had no problem with wandering to the bathroom with no clothes on, and it wasn’t as if Sherlock held any such petty notions of modesty.

The sound of running water reached him as he headed down the hallway towards the bathroom, the faint glow from underneath the door guiding him when the lights hadn’t been switched on. He stopped outside the door and took a deep breath to gather his nerve, knowing that Sherlock was waiting on the other side. A very naked, very wet Sherlock if the sounds of water splashing were anything to go by…

Steam rushed out of the room when he opened the door, prompting John to get inside quickly before all the heat escaped from what was a medium-sized bathroom at best. Finding the door secure, he turned around to look at where the shower was and his mouth fell open; his previous guess of finding a wet, soapy Sherlock couldn’t have been more accurate, but John hadn’t been prepared for how _enticing_  the other man would look in such a state. Even though the steam was starting to mist up the glass separating them, John could clearly see the shine on Sherlock’s skin where the water was reflected in the lights of the bathroom, allowing him to follow the trail the soap suds ran from the top of Sherlock’s shoulders, through to the dip at the small of his back and down his legs which were lightly darkened with the sparse hair decorating them. And even through the misted glass, it was apparent that Sherlock’s erection hadn’t abated at all.    

The shower door opened, jolting John from his thoughts to see Sherlock half-smiling at him, his wet curls dropping down into his eyes. “Do you require a written invitation?”

“Hell no,” John muttered, sliding into the cubicle and shutting the shower door behind him, barely making sure it was closed properly before he felt Sherlock’s body press against him from behind, the sensation of wet, soapy skin sliding against his body making John moan again as he shut his eyes to better absorb all the different feelings.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Sherlock said quietly in his ear, moving them around until John was beneath the spray of the hot water.

John tilted his head beneath it to ensure his hair was soaked through, letting the water flow down his face while he raised his hands to the wall in front of him on either side of the shower head. Sherlock’s hands make a squelching sound behind him, then he felt those same hands on his neck and shoulders, rubbing the soap (Sherlock’s own brand, an orange and grapefruit scented variety which was more expensive but of a better quality than the ones John could afford) into his skin in soothing, circular motions. Belatedly, John realised that Sherlock was bathing him, working the product onto his skin with a firmness that would help to relieve any unwanted tension and it sent another wave of emotion through his body. Sherlock’s hands were like bands of steel, kneading into his muscles and coaxing them to ease their strain, clearly an effort to reduce what would be an otherwise stressful day. Even the thought of an early shift at the surgery was enough to make John wince when he knew he’d have to leave this quiet haven of hot water and relaxing massages.

Sherlock’s hands slid from his shoulders and pulled his arms from the wall, bringing them down until they were at John’s sides before he began to run his fingers along the length of them from the top of his shoulders and down to John’s fingertips. John felt his mental processes begin to shut down as the slow massage continued, a shiver of want running through him when Sherlock located sensitive areas he hadn’t been aware of before and paid special attention to them, logging the different presses and touches which made John twitch, in either irritation or need. Both reactions must have been fine to Sherlock because he was testing each area numerous times and not once did John lose the feeling that he was being taken care of, although it felt funny being an experiment when it collided with the pleasure that was flowing through him. 

And Sherlock didn’t stop. Once John’s arms and hands were finished with, the man moved onto his back and, despite the awkward position, still managed to make John feel like his body was melting from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. His eyelids drooped over his vision, the release of endorphins into his system making his cock throb whilst making him want to fall asleep at the same time.

Slowly and methodically, Sherlock made a thorough sweep of his body; hips, thighs, calves and ankles were touched before Sherlock made him turn under the spray again, facing the detective so Sherlock could do exactly the same to his front.

John couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed at the sorts of sounds he knew he was making when Sherlock’s hands wandered from his collarbones, across his nipples (Sherlock’s fingers did spend more time than was warranted rubbing soap into the little nubs with his thumbs, swirling them round in a smooth, silky rotation that made John’s groin ache) and along his abdomen. Whimpers were definitely there, along with the usual moans and groans when a tight knot of muscle released its hold on his body, and Sherlock hadn’t told him to keep quiet so he must have been enjoying the noises which felt quite beyond John’s control.

With his eyes closed, each touch was sharper in intensity because he couldn’t see where Sherlock was looking, couldn’t see the other man’s eyes to notice whether or not he was looking at John’s face or whether he was focussed on what his hands were doing. All John knew at that moment was the liquid feel of fingers around his groin, rubbing the soap into his pubic hair and smoothing over his testicles before drawing the foreskin from the head of John’s shaft and lightly cleaning the receptive flesh with a touch that just made John long for more.

He really shouldn’t have been surprised when he felt the length of Sherlock’s body press up close to his and felt his mouth taken in kiss, but he still startled when Sherlock’s erection brushed along his stomach until it was pressed between them, realising with a faint shock that Sherlock was, to coin the phrase, ‘rock hard’. Sherlock’s arms wound their way around John’s shoulders and the small of his back, pulling them closer together until almost every inch of them was touching, and John did exactly what he’d been thinking about doing since they’d started this, bringing his hands up to twine his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and tugging on it to keep the kiss going.

John could feel Sherlock’s hands moving across his back where they were tracing the soap and water trails that were running across his body, stopping only when he had both hands on John’s buttocks with one cheek in each hand. John gasped into Sherlock’s mouth when he felt those fingers flex against his skin before one finger on Sherlock’s right hand slipped into his crease, pausing directly over his entrance. Once there, it gently circled the furled bud, barely skimming the edges and then pressed lightly on the centre.

It would be wrong to say that John had never been touched there by another person (he’d had prostate exams before so he’d had some experience in getting his body to accept the careful prodding on previous occasions), but this was a completely different touch. Whereas the exams had a clinical feel to them, this felt more coaxing, a gentle pressure without the sudden intrusion or the texture of latex gloves against his skin, so when Sherlock pressed down with the tip and eased it shallowly past the first tight ring of muscle, using the water of the shower as an impromptu lubricant, John’s eyes shot open as an unsteady pleasure thrummed in his blood.  

“Relax,” Sherlock soothed him when John tensed at the initial push, his anus clenching around the tip of Sherlock’s finger. “Feel the way your body responds to it, not the way you’ve been taught to perceive it.”

“I’ve had prostate exams before,” John said, closing his eyes again and gripping his bottom lip between his teeth when Sherlock began to move his finger in slow circles inside him without pushing down any further. “It’s not the first time I’ve had another person’s fingers there.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, “but this is the first time you’ve been touched there with an intimate intent.” With a slowness that John didn’t think Sherlock was capable of, he felt the tip of the detective’s finger ease from his body, now intensely aware of the way his entrance closed up around the long digit, and inhaled deeply when the finger was pressed back in to the second knuckle before his hole had a chance to fully shut.

“Jesus,” John panted, burying his face into Sherlock’s neck and breathing in the orange and grapefruit scent of the soap he’d used on them both, trying to steady his nerves when that finger began to swirl inside him again, the movement slick from the combination of soap and water which still covered them both.

“Good?” Sherlock asked, pressing his lips to John’s forehead near his hairline. 

“Not sure,” John said, his body clenching in a spasm as it tried to force out Sherlock’s finger. He took deep breaths through his mouth and tried to focus on something else, like the way Sherlock’s other hand was pressed against his back to keep him upright, and it was only than that he realised that his legs were shaking with almost all his weight supported by Sherlock’s lithe frame. He pushed his hips forwards against Sherlock’s body and felt a little flush of pride when his erection, which hadn’t flagged at all, pressed itself against Sherlock’s thigh and twitched. _‘Nope, no problems there, John.’_

“The body doesn’t lie,” Sherlock said, lifting his thigh a little so John’s cock had more purchase. “You’re enjoying this.”

John wanted to laugh at that, but before the sound could begin the entire action was aborted when Sherlock’s finger slipped out of him to run circles around the opening and John didn’t know whether to press back against it or squirm out of Sherlock’s reach. He’d never touched himself there in a sexual way; as a doctor he was careful of examining any signs of pain and discomfort before he decided on whether or not he needed treatment in that particular area, but this careful exploration of one of his most intimate places was undoing him and he couldn’t balance it all in his head. He trusted Sherlock with his life, had killed for the man, so why did this suddenly feel ... wrong? “Stop,” he gasped against Sherlock’s neck when the thought solidified itself and made his body tense in a very unwelcome way, his fingers curling in Sherlock’s hair when a spasm in his rectum actually hurt. “Stop, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s finger immediately withdrew from John’s arse to cup his hip, the man’s other hand stroking along his shoulder blades as John fought to get his breath back. “Everything all right?” Sherlock asked, leaning back from John’s head so they could look each other in the eye.

John nodded, frowning inwardly at himself when the feeling passed. “I don’t know what happened.” He looked down at his own body and saw that he’d lost his erection, being only half-hard now with the ache of arousal fast dissipating from his body. He’d been enjoying himself, sharing his body with Sherlock in a new and untested way; what had changed it?

“Look at me, John,” Sherlock said, voice soft. John did and was surprised to see that Sherlock didn’t look mad at the turn of events, merely intrigued, as though it was just another puzzle to solve. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Sherlock assured him, leaning forward to nuzzle their faces together. “It’s something we can investigate a bit later when we have more time.”

“I was enjoying it,” John stressed, wanting to make it clear to Sherlock even though he knew there probably wasn’t any need. He didn’t like disappointing his lovers and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d done anything less here, even with Sherlock’s conviction that it was something they could sort out later. “You felt good in me.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, reaching around John to turn the water off before it went cold. That done, he pulled his arms from around John’s middle and rested his hands on John’s hips, a calculating expression on his face. “We don’t have enough time this morning but we can try it again later when you come back.”

“You already know what’s wrong, don’t you,” John said, a flash of accusation in his voice. 

Sherlock didn’t refute it. “I have my suspicions, yes, but you need to be an active participant before I can test them.” He opened the shower door and stepped out, reaching for a towel and passing it to John before taking another from the rack to wrap it around his middle. John didn’t know whether he should be happy or not that Sherlock still had an erection, the man adjusting it under the towel so it wasn’t tenting the fabric. When he looked back at Sherlock’s face the detective gave him a small smile, one without teeth, and prompted John to start drying himself.

“What happens if I can’t do that? Anal sex?” John asked, immediately hating himself when the words tumbled from him but unable to stop the questions when they refused to stop bugging him.

“If anal play is something that we both truly want, then we will find a way to work around it,” Sherlock said confidently, leaning back against the bathroom wall while he watched John dry himself off. “For your sake, John, please don’t worry yourself unnecessarily.”

There wasn’t anything more John could say to that except to nod and when Sherlock smiled at him again, with the action somehow full of a deeper yearning, it certainly went a long way to dispel the negative feelings that were swirling around inside his gut, especially when Sherlock looked as good as he did now.

It was only later, when he was finishing getting ready for work that John was disturbed by a loud noise coming from Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock had left the bathroom before John had completely finished and it had only been a few minutes later when he’d heard Sherlock rush to his own room with a lot of banging around before it suddenly stopped. Unperturbed by the lack of noise in the flat, John continued to get ready for his shift as he normally would, using the routine of getting dressed and eating breakfast to help settle his mind.

Just as he was about to put his shoes on, Sherlock came into the living room, fully dressed, and grabbed his coat from the back of the door, putting his scarf on in quick movements. “New case?” John asked, finishing the ties on his shoe laces.

“Unavoidable, I’m afraid,” Sherlock muttered, pacing in front of the fireplace and typing frantically on his phone. “I need to depart for Moscow immediately.”

While he’d been watching Sherlock pace, John had taken that moment to take a sip of his coffee and promptly ended up spitting it back into his cup to avoid getting it all over himself. “Moscow? As in Russia? Do you even speak Russian?”

“конечно,” Sherlock replied in what sounded like fluent Russian and John scowled at him, knowing that he had no way of knowing whether or not Sherlock was just waffling utter bollocks at him.

“All right, smarty-pants. So what’s happened in Moscow?” 

Sherlock didn’t respond at first, watching when John stood up to fix his tie in the mirror above the fireplace and moving to intervene. “A political figure-head has gotten himself into trouble apparently,” he explained while doing up John’s tie. “He wants me to prove that he didn’t commit a murder so he can avoid a trial which can result in the death penalty.”

“I didn’t think Russia had a death penalty,” John asked, watching Sherlock’s face as the other man finished the knot and set it in the centre of his shirt.

Sherlock scoffed. “Politics is a waste of time. The murder itself is the only reason I’m going; I already know that the accused didn’t commit it but I still need to see the crime scene first hand to examine the evidence before it goes to trial.”  

John glanced at his watch, cursing when he saw he only had ten minutes before he had to leave. “Do you have any idea how long it will take?”

“Examining the scene itself should be easy,” Sherlock said, finishing on his phone and slipping it into his coat pocket. “The trial itself may be trickier so I don’t expect to return until the weekend.”

John mentally counted the days. “That’s three days from now.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, unfortunately. The work still drives me, John, I don’t want to purposely mislead you on that account, but for me it couldn’t have come at a worse time.” Sherlock stepped forward into John’s space, sliding a hand out to circle John’s waist. “There are unexplored possibilities about you, Doctor Watson,” he said and John felt something being pressed into his right hand, a tube of some sort as Sherlock leant down to kiss him lightly across his mouth.

When they both pulled back from each other, John bought the tube up so he could see it, his eyes widening when he read the label. “‘Maximus Anal Lubricant,’” he read aloud, turning back to look at the other man.

Sherlock smirked. “I am making it a personal endeavour to find each and every one of those possibilities.”

Just as Sherlock went through the living room door, another question dawned on John that he couldn’t wait for three days to be answered. “Sherlock, wait a minute! How do you know this stuff is any good?”   

“Oh please,” Sherlock drawled, coming back around the door so only his head was showing. “As if I’d let you use something on yourself that I hadn’t tested beforehand.” His eyes flicked to the bottle John still had clenched in his right hand before bringing those eyes back up to John’s face and, much to John’s disbelief, winking at him. “Quite stringently in this case, I can assure you.” 

_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 2: Maximus Anal Lubricant is a brand sold on a website called ‘LoveHoney’. Check out the site if you want; it’s fab! (Consenting adults only, of course *wink*)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> Well, that took longer than expected... 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read/commented/rated in the time I've been away, you're all awesome! xxx
> 
> Quick note: I noticed in the previous chapter that I referred to Sherlock's knuckles on his finger without explicitly telling anyone which knuckle it was... There is still some misuse of which one is the first/second/third so for continuity's sake, here is the order that I use for this story. 
> 
> The first knuckle is nearest the palm and the third knuckle is the one at the end of your finger. Just so we're clear ^^ 
> 
> By the way, the next chapter shouldn't take so long because I already have it drafted in my head and I know exactly where I'm going with it. I was going to add it onto the end of this one as a continuation but this part ended naturally on its own and it didn't feel like it needed it. So hence another chapter! I don't know about you, but I'm really excited...
> 
> Anyway, enough from me.
> 
> Enjoy!

The first text arrived when John reached the surgery, only ten minutes before the start of his shift, with the sound from his jacket pocket alerting him to the incoming message as he hung it up on his coat rack. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that he still had another fifteen minutes before his first patient was due for their appointment, but when he opened the message he began to wish that he’d just left his phone where it was.

 **Remember that you’re not allowed to come without my permission – SH**  

As if he could let himself forget that minor detail, the memory of the lubricant bottle burned into the nerve-endings of his hand where he had held it for a moment after Sherlock’s departure, before tossing it onto the sofa and rushing to catch a taxi before he was late for work.

His phone trilled again, jolting him from the memory as he opened up the next message and read another of Sherlock’s texts, sent seconds ago.

 **That doesn’t mean that you’re not allowed to experiment – SH**

_‘Experiment?’_  The very word was enough to conjure images that were in no way appropriate on a Wednesday morning, especially when he was at the surgery and preparing to see a new patient who had just transferred over to them. He sat down carefully behind his desk, hoping to God that he wasn’t blushing when his arse came into contact with the seat and pressed against tender muscles, the brief flare of pain making his jaw clench. If he was _this_  sensitive after only ten strikes, how would he manage when the number went up? Shaking his head, he opened his phone again and typed a reply back to Sherlock, having a strong suspicion of what it was Sherlock was hinting at but not wanting to take any chances.

 _What the hell are you talking about?_  

Barely a minute passed before his phone went off again; John tried not to berate himself too much when he eagerly opened the new message.

 **I did leave you the lubricant for a reason. I was unaware that I would have to explain its purpose – SH**

_Haha, very funny_

**Sarcasm doesn’t become you, John – SH**

_No, but you seem to bring it out in me. And how the hell am I meant to ‘experiment’ without getting off?_

**You’re an army doctor. If you can handle operating on soldiers in a warzone, you are perfectly capable of convincing a few tense rings of muscle to relax – SH**

_Sherlock!_

**Imagine I’m the one doing it – SH**

_‘Christ…’_  All John had to do was think back to their time in the shower; although it hadn’t ended in the way that he’d hoped for, the sensory memory of Sherlock’s finger slipping inside him, slick and smooth and the feeling of his arse clenching around it… It was an effort to remember that it had only been the tip.

His phone trilled again. 

 **I’ve seen you looking at my fingers, you know. When I’m tuning my violin or focussing my microscope on a sample. You’ve been fantasizing about them, wondering how I’ll use them on you instead – SH**

_How do you…? No, don’t answer that_

**Why? Are you hard, John? Stupid, of course you are. Highly inappropriate when you’re working. What would your patients think of you, aching with arousal behind your desk as you diagnose them? What would happen if they knew what had caused it? – SH**  

Oh, he was going to kill Sherlock the next time he saw him. Slowly and painfully, with the other man tied down so he wouldn’t be able to move…

Another message.

 **Can you imagine the looks on their faces if they found out? Would they be disgusted? Revolted? – SH**  

Out of all the things John liked to attribute himself with, a humiliation kink certainly hadn’t been one of them. And yes, he could imagine it; in full colour, 3D imagery, the works. The whispered words behind his back and eyes that glared over the rims of spectacles; the warnings spread of perversion within the surgery concerning a certain doctor, ex-army, who got his kicks from what most people would consider an abusive relationship. God, he was certainly going to Hell because the thought of it was enough to make his breath shudder in his throat, not with shame, but with desire. He could almost hear the sound of Sherlock’s voice in his ear; perhaps the detective’s hand would be on the back of his neck, displaying his ownership of John’s body to the people around them, deep baritone stroking his nerves and making him tremble.

Another message and two minutes before his next patient was due. With fingers that shook, he opened up the last message he would be able to look at until the end of his shift. 

 **Or would they be envious? – SH**

_‘Damn you, Sherlock.’_  

oOo 

It wasn’t the first time John had had to treat a patient whilst trying to hide an erection from them, but he’d be damned if it was going to happen again on his watch. Not only was it uncomfortable (he couldn’t exactly reach into his pants to adjust himself), but it was also embarrassing and had the potential to affect the quality of his care for his patients. It was especially disconcerting when he considered the fact that it was that very embarrassment that had kept his erection going throughout his shift, although a small part of him was quietly satisfied at how well he’d handled it in the end.

Luckily for him, his patients were too concerned with their own problems to focus on John’s _difficulties_  and he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The very potential of strangers noticing his arousal was enough to make him sweat behind his desk and it wasn’t something he had any desire to experience again in the future. Well… not with his patients at least, not if he had any say in it.

If he was also honest with himself, the distinct lack of emergency cases meant that he had more time to reflect on what had happened that morning; specifically, the incident in the shower. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t disappointed in him; the man was too well-versed in how the human body reacted when under pressure to discount how John was feeling in favour of his own needs, but John couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something he should have controlled a bit better. Trying to understand it from an objective viewpoint was damn near impossible though because he couldn’t view his own body with the same attitude that Sherlock had for his, couldn’t fathom referring to his physical being as ‘transport’.

Self-reflection was something that his therapist had quoted to him more than once, so he figured it couldn’t hurt to try and sort through his own feelings on the matter. He knew that his reaction had nothing to do with his upbringing or things he had seen in the war. His parents had been nothing but supportive when they found out his sister had a girlfriend, so he knew it didn’t stem from any indirect homophobia, and he’d seen enough soldiers turn to each other in Afghanistan to know that he didn’t have a problem with the physical aspect of it. Nor was he particularly religious, despite having been brought up in a community that prided itself on traditionalist standards and a firm belief in God, Queen and country - in that order.

It was probably inexperience, but even that didn’t seem to answer all the questions as to why it had happened in the first place. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Sherlock that he’d had prostate exams before, yet this was a completely different context. The exams had been for a physical health check; Sherlock’s intention was something very different but not wholly unwelcome. Yes, the prostate exams hadn’t been arousing in the slightest (they were never designed to be), so having his gland prodded and stroked had done nothing for him sexually. John wasn’t sure whether it was because he’d unintentionally blanked out any pleasurable sensations at the time, but Sherlock’s finger hadn’t gotten that far to see whether the theory was justified. Nor did he view himself as a man who displayed his masculinity to other males to prove his dominance over them. He was by no means an alpha but he wasn’t on the lowest rung of the ladder either, so maybe it was some misplaced sense of domination that had caused it.

Experimentation was the only likely way forward than but Sherlock wouldn’t be back until the weekend and John wasn’t sure he could wait that long. Now he had inklings of what was wrong, he wanted to put them to the test, see if he could overcome them, but he wasn’t sure how to do that without Sherlock there to help him.

Any further reflection on his part was cut short when his shift ended on time for once, and he arrived back at the flat just after five pm, two brown paper bags in his arms and the key to the flat itself set between his teeth for a lack of anywhere else to hold it. Getting up the stairs to the flat was always a tricky business when one was in the situation that John found himself in on quite a number of occasions, but thankfully it wasn’t impossible. Sherlock had never seen helping with the shopping as an activity that was worthy of his time, which meant that John had more than enough practise managing on his own. Precariously balancing the two loads in one arm, he opened the door to the flat and side-stepped into the living room before unceremoniously dumping the whole lot on the kitchen table, for once devoid of Sherlock’s experiments, and pulled out his mobile.

There weren’t any more texts from the detective but there was a missed call from the man, timed almost after John’s shift had ended at the surgery. Sherlock never called unless it was an emergency, and even than he still preferred to text, so he clearly hadn’t taken into account the possibility that John would go and do shopping afterwards. Without any hesitation he dialled Sherlock’s number, listening frantically to the ringing on the other side before Sherlock finally answered on his end. “Hello, John.” A smooth intonation, almost a purr across the miles separating them and completely at odds with what John had been expecting.   

“Sherlock! Are you all right? I missed your call, what’s wrong?” Ok, so he hadn’t meant to come across as worried as he sounded, but Sherlock would have probably picked up on it anyway.

“Yes I know, I purposely hung up so you would have the missed call,” Sherlock said, voice tinged with humour. “And no, I haven’t been kidnapped by the Russian mafia yet so there isn’t anything wrong.”

There were so many things wrong with that sentence that John couldn’t decide whether to be incensed that Sherlock had purposely called him to make him worry, or whether he should be worried about what the detective had been doing on his first day in Russia. “Yet? What do you mean ‘yet’?”

“Exactly what I said, John, do try to keep up. I did have a meeting with the Don though. He said to pass a message onto you saying that he’s a fan of your blog, although I cannot fathom why.”

“You? You met with…” Why did the English language decide to desert him now, when this was quite possibly the first time he had Sherlock on the phone since he’d met the man? No, he didn’t have time to think about that now, not when the most pressing matter still needed answering. “So you’re not hurt?”

He heard Sherlock’s huff of exasperation. “I am unhurt in either a physical or mental capacity. If there is any way I can make myself clearer to you, please indulge me.”

John released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding, his relief palpable. It was all very well that Sherlock sounded like himself on the other end of the phone, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t in any danger. Sometimes the man could come across as too in-character for John’s peace of mind, particularly when he couldn’t tell if Sherlock was in a situation that would normally demand John’s intervention to keep them both safe. “So why did you call me? You never call.”

“I assume you’re back at the flat,” Sherlock said. 

 _‘Avoiding the question,’_  John thought, irritably. “Yes, I’ve only just got back from doing the shopping though.” Which still needed to be put away but he didn’t mention that, unwilling to give Sherlock an excuse to terminate the call.     

“The shopping can wait,” Sherlock said almost immediately. “There has been a delay in the proceedings of the trial due to the evidence I located at the crime scene; my services won’t be required until tomorrow at the earliest despite my attempts to negotiate with the police force.”

“And?” John asked, looking at the bags on the table and thinking about the frozen items that would need to be put away first.

“And?” Sherlock parroted back to him, voice again laced with humour. “Why would I be calling you when I’m facing this evening alone in an understaffed hotel in a room that doesn’t have central heating? Sounds like a marvellous way to pass the time, John, but surely I can think of something better…”

It was only than that the meaning behind Sherlock’s words clicked. Like, actually clicked, lodging into his brain and refusing to be shaken loose. But surely Sherlock wouldn’t be calling him for… _that?_  “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with you missing me and just wanting to hear my voice,” John said, swallowing around a dry throat.

“What would you like to hear me say?” Sherlock asked. “That I wanted to hear your voice because I missed you, or because I wanted to hear what it sounds like as you’re coming with your own fingers buried inside you?”

The mental image that accompanied Sherlock’s words seared through John’s head, his breath gasping in his chest and his erection, which hadn’t disappeared completely since Sherlock left this morning, giving a warning throb in his trousers. “Jesus, Sherlock… We haven’t even decided if this is something we want yet.”

“Purely because we only have one set of data upon which we can draw from,” Sherlock said. “More information is required before we can come to any conclusions.”

“And you thought that,” John quickly glanced at his watch, “just gone five o’clock in the afternoon was a good time to try and convince me to have an orgasm over the phone.” Not that John was fooling himself. Being an advocate of a healthy sex life, he very rarely needed any persuasion on that subject and he wasn’t about to tell Sherlock that he’d been thinking the exact same thing only a few hours previously.

“Taking into account the time difference between our respective locations,” Sherlock replied, “mine is a respectable seven minutes past seven in the evening compared to your seven minutes past five, not that you have any qualms about what the time is when you’re aroused and just want to ‘get off’. Nor should you limit yourself to certain periods of a twenty-four hour clock in which to seek sexual gratification.”

John really didn’t have anything to say to that, logical as Sherlock’s thought process was, but he never thought he’d see the day when he’d hear Sherlock defending his right as a healthy, young male in the pursuit of his desires. “…So where do you want me?” God, he was going to be in so much trouble, giving Sherlock an open-ended question like that.

“Go to my room,” Sherlock said, sounding alarmingly calm despite the intensity of what they were about to do, “and pick up the lubricant on your way there. You’ll need it.”

Breath escaping him in a whoosh, John wandered over to the sofa and picked up the bottle he’d discarded earlier that morning, turning it around so he could read the label again. Christ, was he even ready for this? Sliding a thumb over the name on the bottle, he clutched it in his right hand and walked towards Sherlock’s bedroom, taking in the rumpled sheets and the scent of his lover / flatmate as he entered the room, the curtains still drawn against the darkness of what had been a bright day. “I’m here,” he said into the phone, voice steady, turning around to shut the door behind him. 

“Put the phone on loudspeaker and put it on the bedside table,” Sherlock ordered. 

John did as he was told, making it clear to Sherlock when the phone was on the table by emphasizing the slight click of the plastic touching the wood. “Done.”

“Do you still have the lubricant?” Sherlock asked and John found himself nodding before he realised that Sherlock couldn’t see him.

“Right here,” he said, twirling the bottle around in his hands to look at the instructions. Jeez, who really needed instructions for this, seriously?

“Good. Put it on the table next to the phone and take your clothes off.” 

The world stopped on its axis for all of five seconds as John stared at the phone, his hands stilling on the bottle. “I’m sorry, what?”

Sherlock sighed, an audible exhale in the call. “I want you naked, John. Don’t make me repeat myself.”  

“…Right.” He put the bottle on the table, paused for another second, and began taking his clothes off without trying to think about what he was doing beyond slipping the buttons of his shirt through their respective holes. Making sure he took his shoes off before his trousers. The usual mundane way he would undress before he went to bed, except this was completely different and there wasn’t any possible way for him to escape that. The last bit of clothing slipped from his body, landing on the floor with a quiet swoosh and making the air swirl around his ankles, the touch intimate in a way that he’d never associated with it before. He cleared his throat softly to distract himself, looking at the lubricant and his mobile in turn. “Done.”

“Take the phone and lubricant and lie down so you’re on your back, facing the ceiling. Be sure to keep the bottle within reach of your hands.”

John followed Sherlock’s instructions, squirming with pleasure when the silk teased his skin and glided across his body, the softness of Sherlock’s pillows cradling the back of his head when he pressed into them. Curious, he looked down the length of his torso and saw the head of his cock looking back at him, hard enough that it was lying flat along his stomach rather than pointing straight up at the ceiling. Looking at the state of his own body, John secretly hoped that he’d never get used to the luxury of Sherlock’s bedding purely because the utter sinfulness of the silk made this whole situation deliciously naughty in a way that being in his own bed would never be. “Ready,” he said, a little breathless now, dropping his head back on the pillow.

“Bring the phone closer to your mouth but be careful not to dislodge it,” Sherlock said, and when John moved the phone to its new position, his agreement with John’s placing was a sigh of pleasure down the line. “Much better, John. Now, I want you to follow my instructions exactly; I will know if you do something different.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t want to use Skype for this,” John murmured, turning his head towards the phone. “I’d have thought you’d want to see me when I… you know.”

“The first time I see your hole penetrated, I will be between your legs watching it happen,” Sherlock said. “A computer screen is a poor substitute.”

“Except for crime scenes below a seven,” John joked, although the words were difficult because it felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. Sherlock really saw him as better than a crime scene?

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock chided him. “You’re much more interesting than a seven.” 

John laughed. “Point taken. So what do you want me to do?” 

“Close your eyes if you haven’t done so already,” Sherlock murmured, “and bring your hands above your head.” Wordlessly, John did as asked and waited. “When you’re there,” Sherlock continued, “I want you to stretch your body out. Feel the muscles in your arms flex as you hold them above your head; the way your toes stretch away from you when you ease the tension in your legs and feet. Keep doing this until I tell you to stop.”

Hmmm, yes, that was starting to feel good. The rhythmic stretching of his muscles was working wonders on the aches and pains that a strenuous day could bring, each flex of movement encouraging his body to relax after the tension was held and then released.

“Very good, John,” Sherlock’s voice purred, hearing the groans of John’s pleasure as his body sank further into the mattress. “Now, bring your hands to your collar-bones, your right hand crossed over your left. Once you’re in position, I want you to slide your hands down your body slowly, across your chest and down your abdomen, only stopping when your hands separate above your hips. Do not touch your erection while you’re doing this and don’t stop at any point along the way.” 

Naturally, John’s inclination was to stop at the exact points that would provide him with the most pleasure, unable to contain his gasp when his fingers slipped over his nipples and tickled along the sensitive sides of his ribs and hip bones. He did this another three times, each pass becoming slower as he focussed on the heat from his own hands and the way the pads of his skin felt against the hair on his chest; the way they felt when they brushed against his stomach and teased at the firm musculature that he still retained.

He was just about to start the fifth pass when Sherlock told him to stop. “How do you feel now, John?” 

“Sensual,” John replied, a dreamy grin taking over his face. “Like I could lie here forever just touching myself.”     

Sherlock made a noise down the phone but John was unable to discern if it was a chuckle or a moan at his words. “Spread your legs,” Sherlock ordered, “and bring your heels up until they touch your buttocks.”

Biting into his lower lip, John did as he was told; bringing his feet up until he felt the heels of his feet contact his glutes. This change in position was going to put a strain on his quadriceps eventually, but when he allowed his legs to drop slightly on either side they relived the pressure somewhat and opened the areas on his inner thighs and groin for further exploration. “What next?” he asked Sherlock, keeping his hands plastered to the mattress to avoid the temptation of giving his cock any stimulation before Sherlock ordered him to.

“Patience,” Sherlock murmured, and John had the fleeting thought that Sherlock knew exactly how low that voice could go because _damn…_  “You’re aching for this now aren’t you? Yes, of course you are; you’re naked in my bed, writhing around on my sheets with my voice in your ears. Well, don’t expect relief any time soon. I’m not done with you yet; we haven’t even started.” There was a pause, just the gentle exhale of Sherlock’s breaths on the phone making John aware he was still there, before Sherlock spoke again. “Now I want you to feel yourself properly. Slide your hands down your body and stroke along the inside of your thighs.”

Moaning his gratitude at _finally_  being able to move, John did as directed, making sure to drag his fingertips across his more sensitive areas before he reached the creases where his thighs met his groin. His cock felt like a brand of fire along his belly, twitching in its need for attention and flushed at the tip, but he determinedly ignored it, pressing his head back against the pillows as his hips thrust upwards. Panting breaths filled the air when John slid his hands along his inner thighs after teasing himself, feeling the pressure of his hands and the wantonness of his position, open and needful for the right touch. “God, Sherlock, what you do to me…” he groaned, back arching when a combination of Sherlock’s words and his own actions made the ache in his cock intensify. “I wish you could see this.”

“Tell me,” Sherlock said and his voice had a breathless quality to it that made John wonder whether the other man was touching himself as he spoke to John, maybe in a mimicry of what he was asking John to do. “How does it make you feel being this way? Spread out and waiting for my permission before you can touch yourself, unable to relieve some of that ache you must be feeling?”

“It feels fantastic,” John replied, drawing out the words slightly to emphasise their importance. “I feel… I’m aching so much right now, I can’t even tell you. I want your hands on me, Sherlock; I want you to be the one doing this to me.”

Sherlock didn’t respond to John’s words for a moment but John wasn’t concerned; if the telltale hitch in Sherlock’s breathing was anything to go by, John’s words were also having their desired effect. If Sherlock’s mission was to keep John in this position for an unknown length of time, at the mercy of Sherlock’s words, he was damn well going to make sure that Sherlock was suffering right there with him.

“Do you want to know what my hands are doing?” Sherlock asked after a moment, and John had a brief second of explicit imagination before Sherlock spoke again. “They’re on my cock, John. My right hand is pushing my foreskin over the glans at the head while my left is cupping my testicles, rolling them around in their sack and tugging at them when the need arises.”

John’s body shuddered on the bed with the visual that Sherlock had painted for him, his fingers clenching on his thighs and a moan spilling from him as his imagination filled in the blanks between Sherlock’s words. The thought of Sherlock in some seedy hotel room, naked on the chair or the bed and luxuriously stroking himself, that hot, hard length of his being teased and fondled… John’s head twisted on the pillow beneath him, his breath coming out in short, quick gasps. “Sherlock, please. Please let me touch myself, God, I can’t…” His fingers twitched again, a motion that brought them closer to his erection which felt hot and swollen between his legs. “Please…”

“Oh, John, I wish you could hear yourself,” Sherlock murmured. “You’re almost there now; you must be desperate for it.” A deep sigh drifted down the line and John whimpered at the sound of it, of Sherlock’s pleasure. “Lift your legs up until your thighs are pressed to your chest,” he said. “I want you spread open for me.”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John replied, moving his legs into position and feeling his skin flush hot on his face as the entirety of his groin was exposed. His cock jumped on his belly and he gasped in shock when he felt the sensation of liquid cooling on his skin, realising with another jolt that he was leaking pre-come onto his own body.

“Reach around your legs,” Sherlock continued. “Take a hold of one buttock in each hand and pull them apart so I can imagine that you’re exposing that tight, little pucker for me as I watch.”

With hands that shook slightly, John followed Sherlock’s order, getting a good grip on his flanks before slowly pulling them apart. The air was cool on his skin and he exhaled sharply when he felt the sweat drying around his entrance, his body flexing it in an instinctive need to close it up. Head thunking back on his pillow, he tried to concentrate on his breathing, listening to Sherlock’s own quick exhales to help ground himself.

“Let’s have some fun with it,” Sherlock purred. “Slick your fingers, John. It’s time you prepared yourself for me.”

“Oh my God…” John fumbled for the bottle at his hip, hastily flipping off the cap and drizzling some of the lubricant onto his fingers, ensuring that they were coated properly before flipping the lid and tossing the bottle on the bed. “Please, Sherlock.”

“Touch yourself there,” Sherlock said, his voice nearly a growl. “Stroke the lubricant over your hole and tell me how it feels. Leave nothing out.”

The first touch of his index finger to his entrance made John hiss, his eyes clenching in their sockets. Releasing the breath, he gave himself permission to prolong the contact, gently rubbing light circles around his opening and stroking the furled edges before dipping into the centre, mimicking the action that Sherlock had done to him in the shower. “Feels odd,” he said eventually. “But good. It’s hot, hotter than with gloves on, and… good.”

“Just good?” Sherlock asked and John could hear the smile in his voice. 

Ok, it felt bloody fantastic actually, but John was coming close to that invisible barrier that had stopped him in his tracks with Sherlock this morning. He could feel it rising up inside him, although at a slower pace because the arousal in his blood was fighting it, pressing down and trying to force it into submission. If only he could finish it off… “Sherlock, I need to touch myself,” he gasped, the realisation hitting him square in his stomach. “Please, I don’t want to come, not yet, but-”

“Do it,” Sherlock ordered, interrupting John’s begging. “Stroke yourself and, when you do, I want you to penetrate yourself at the same time.”

His left hand found his cock almost desperately, the first tug forcing a cry from him with the surge of pleasure that forced its way through him. He was so hard and it felt so good to finally have his hand there, rubbing along the rigid length and finding the rhythm that suited him. Remaining true to Sherlock’s order, John slipped his index finger inside himself, grunting at the unexpected tightness of it and the way he clenched around his own digit, the strokes on his cock faltering as he grew accustomed to the sensation.

“Talk to me, John,” Sherlock said; his own small sounds of pleasure audible above John’s frantic breathing. 

“It’s so tight,” John said, cautiously thrusting the tip of that finger inside himself and timing it with the strokes on his erection. “So hot and tight… Yessss,” the last word drawn out when he became braver and pushed his index finger all the way in to the first knuckle, gently twirling his finger along the walls of his passage as it accepted the careful intrusion. Thank God he’d added as much lubricant as he had, he thought, the slickness of the product allowing for smoother movements as he stimulated himself. He gradually set up a thrusting motion between the first and second knuckle, shivering at the sensation of his arse clinging to his finger every time it withdrew before being sucked back inside, a very warm welcome to what was becoming an erotic act in its own right. “It’s in me,” he moaned, turning his head so he was facing the phone. “My finger’s inside me, Sherlock.”

“I know, John, I can hear it in your voice. You sound so good,” Sherlock murmured. “Keep going, don’t hold anything back.”

 _‘Fuck yes.’_  Long seconds passed while John kept up the penetration of his body, experimenting with different angles and pressures, sometimes removing his finger altogether so he could feel his opening clenching around nothing, as though hungry for anything that would fill the void left behind. The first thrust of his hips was unsteady as John got used to the stretch, but soon natural instinct took over and his body found the pace of it, a movement that made his toes curl as the sinuous threads of desire crept their way through his limbs and centred on his cock.

“Add another one,” Sherlock ordered, definitely more breathless than he’d been moments before.

Tentatively, John withdrew his index finger and pressed his middle finger alongside it, concentrating on relaxing his body so that it accepted the digits as a whole. “Nnnggg, God, Sherlock, that’s…” It hurt, but that was to be expected; he’d only ever taken one finger before so two was going to be different, of course it was. To ease the stretch and burn that the extra finger was causing, he lightly pressed against the rim of his arse with his thumb, stroking lightly to convince it to relax and quickening the strokes on his cock with his other hand to counteract the pain. “Ok,” John panted towards to the phone, a verbal indication that he was ready to continue.

“Slowly now,” Sherlock said. “Can you feel how open you’re becoming? How your body is clenching on your fingers, encouraging you to thrust faster, perhaps add more of your fingers? You would be so full but it wouldn’t be enough, would it. No, you’re going to want something much better than that and I’m going to give it to you.”

“Give it to me,” John gasped, his fingers already starting to thrust again, matching each twist of his fingers with a tug on his cock and moaning when he realised how close he was getting, only one thought running around in his head. _‘I’m fucking myself, I’m fucking myself, I’m fucking myself, I’m-’_  The words caused the ache in his groin to spike, his back bowing as he hurtled towards his climax. “Sherlock… I’m… I’m gonna-”

“Do it, John,” Sherlock ordered, the detective unable to hold back his groans. “Fuck yourself, do it now!”    

Almost immediately after the words had left the other man’s mouth, John’s body was curling in on itself, high pitched whimpers coming from him as his cock jetted come onto his chest and stomach, violent spasms racking his frame as he tried desperately to keep fucking his fist whilst thrusting his fingers into his arse. It was so intense and powerful that he couldn’t say anything, every muscle locking up tight, and it _hurt_ but it was so _good_. After what seemed like a lifetime, his body finally shuddered out the last dregs of his orgasm, his legs flopping down on the bed with his arms resting on the mattress, the only sound being his loud pants as he tried to get his breath back.

“Well, that certainly exceeded expectations,” Sherlock said smugly and John could just imagine the grin on the detective’s face at that moment. Or maybe it wouldn’t be a grin, but a self-satisfied little smirk, with curls dropping down into eyes which were sated and happy and if John kept up with that train of thought he might have to rethink his refractory period.

“It was bloody fantastic actually,” he replied, although he couldn’t help his wince when he felt his hole clench reflexively when he stretched. The sensation was odd now, like it felt more natural to have his fingers inside him and now his body had to adjust to the abruptness of their retreat. He would need to test it out again later, preferably with Sherlock’s fingers in place of his own, but he couldn’t see Sherlock refusing him.  

“Something to be repeated when I return,” Sherlock said, and John couldn’t help his nod of agreement.

“Hmmm, yes. Definitely.”

  _To be continued_  


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: Me again! ^^ 
> 
> Thank you all for your patience, you're fabulous!!! *mwah* I hope this part was worth the wait! Let me know what you think, your words are always valued! xxx
> 
> Enjoy!

It was purely coincidental that the next day formed a part of John’s pre-booked holiday and, given the way he was feeling that morning, he was labouring under the impression that hindsight was a wonderful thing. He still hadn’t gotten out of bed, the absence of any alarms allowing him to drift to out of sleep in a manner that left him feeling refreshed and delightfully slothful with his arms wrapped around one of Sherlock’s pillows. He yawned upon first awakening, his nostrils filling with the scent of Sherlock; his aftershave, his body wash and of course the aroma of the man himself. All in all it was a location that John was loathe to remove himself from, especially when his morning wood happily announced its arrival by pressing into the mattress in a smooth glide, nerve endings sparking with pleasure but not arousal just yet.  

Surprised, John smothered a giggle into his pillow, amazed at his body’s ability to be up for it again so soon because he wasn’t twenty-five anymore but, then again, he couldn’t remember if his sex life had ever been this exciting. After having been denied his orgasm for the majority of yesterday, he had to admit that his climax over the phone had been well worth the wait and he would probably be up for a repeat of the same if it meant he could look forward to a morning of drowsy, endorphin filled bliss (hopefully with an equally warm, snoozing Sherlock to wrap himself around instead of a pillow).

The clock’s digits glowed beside him on the bedside table, confirming his suspicion that it was indeed very late in morning and that it was about time he got up to face the world. He started moving his body slowly, stretching out his limbs, back and torso and establishing that, even with his rather adventurous exploration last night, he hadn’t done himself any damage (there wasn’t a remote chance of it, actually, since he hadn’t been vigorous enough in his thrusting), only the memory of his fingers being inside him giving any indication that it had happened in the first place. Blinking at the light shining behind the curtains of Sherlock’s bedroom, he rolled over onto his back and ran his hands down his body in the same way Sherlock had ordered him to yesterday evening, cataloguing the way he felt to see if there was any lingering sign of Sherlock’s hands on his form and slightly disappointed to find that everywhere on his body was now completely pain free.

There was nothing to suggest that his buttocks had had Sherlock’s handprints on them just days ago. His nipples pebbled with the memory of Sherlock’s nails twisting into them but he no longer experienced discomfort when they brushed against his shirts during the day or his fingers when he showered. That wasn’t to suggest that he no longer became aroused when he thought of what had been done to him though. In fact, he was hoping that his pain-free condition wouldn’t remain for long, his mind held captive by the memory of Sherlock pinning him down in this same bed, grinding their erections together and feeling his own moans spill freely from him with the tightening of Sherlock’s hands around his wrists. Of being smacked over Sherlock’s lap, his buttocks flaring with heat and sensation while the detective came all over his back in a primal display of territorial ownership, just after John had found his release without a single touch to his cock. 

The memories were enough to make his groin ache and, considering what Sherlock had ordered him to do last night, it was clear that the other man had an agenda which involved anal penetration (at the very least), but John could only guess at what else Sherlock was planning to do to him. Knowing Sherlock, he probably had a list somewhere with different categories for each activity, perhaps a table on excel where he could measure John’s reactions to certain stimuli. It left him wondering what ones had made it to the list and, more importantly, how exhaustive that list was. 

His imagination was only too happy to provide him with some of the images he’d seen on the websites when he’d been doing his research, now remembered in a completely different light with the way his face flushed warm, desire lurking underneath his skin that had yet to surface. He thought about one man who had been tied down on a bed with ropes, his arms and feet above his head so that his body was almost bent in half with his legs spread obscenely. The ropes that were tied around his feet had been looped to the corners of the headboard, leaving his body open and vulnerable to his Dom as the other man dripped hot wax along his thighs and buttocks, the wax being red in colour so it was distinguishable from the man’s pale skin. There had been a link attached to the image which showed it was just a still from a video posted to the Internet, but John hadn’t been of the mind to play it at the time, perhaps because the look of agony on the sub’s face had been enough to put him off. When he thought of it now, he wondered how much of that agony had been begged for before it was inflicted.

Another scene and that time it had been a video that he’d stumbled across before hastily clicking off of it at the culmination of the suffering being endured. It had been of a sub having his skin pinched between wooden clothing pegs, except that a cord had been inserted between his skin and the peg. The look on the sub’s face had been almost ecstatic as the Dom placed them around his chest and nipples, following the line of his body down to the inside of his thighs and the sensitive areas around the groin. Most memorably, the Dom had attached one to the patch of skin near the perineum so when the inevitable happened, the pegs being torn from the sub’s body when the cord was pulled by the Dom, the sub’s screams had been so heartfelt that John had been worried that the sound would echo down to Mrs Hudson in her own flat.

The name of the practise should have given it away, ‘zipping’ apparently, but the shock of it had still made John’s hands tremble when he went to click away from the screen. However, before he’d been able to close the window, he’d seen the Dom wipe the tears away from the sub’s face with his fingers and feed those drops to him, the sub licking his partner’s fingers desperately, almost gratefully, although John hadn’t been sure why considering the extreme amount of pain that had just been caused to his body. Looking back on it now with his own very limited experience of pain-play, the sub’s face had shown nothing less than complete adoration for his Dom and John wondered whether his face had been the same after Sherlock had spanked him, remembering how beautiful Sherlock had looked and just wanting to bask in the high and the man who had created it.

Despite John’s current state, slowly thrusting his hips against the sheets to relieve some of the pressure in his groin, he knew he wasn’t ready for anything likezipping and he had his doubts as to whether he ever would be, but that didn’t stop him imagining how the pegs must’ve felt on the sub’s skin. The sharp pinch of the wood around his nipples and groin must have made his body ache fiercely and when the cord was pulled free, taking the pegs with it…

What would it be like? To allow Sherlock that kind of freedom over his body; to make John scream with the throbbing of it all and still beg for more, beg to be allowed to come? Shutting his eyes, John tried to remember the way Sherlock’s hand had felt on his arse when he was being spanked; from the first initial slap, a tester, proceeding to the fourth, fifth and sixth when the fire was really beginning to spread over his cheeks and down his thighs. He remembered how Sherlock’s hand forced heat and pain into his body, a stinging sensation that increased with each strike until he’d been writhing on Sherlock’s lap, perversely pressing up against Sherlock’s hand when he knew the blow was coming.  

Would Sherlock tie him down in much the same manner as the bloke on the bed? Would he be gagged, blindfolded, with the only the sound of Sherlock’s breathing enough to convince him the detective was still in the same room with him? Sensory deprivation in the extreme to ensure that John’s overall experience became focussed on Sherlock and the pain with nothing to distract him.

God, it felt like there was so much to explore now, to discover about himself, and Sherlock wasn’t even there to take advantage of it. 

There wasn’t any hope that there would be a repeat of last night though; the trial in Russia was happening today and Sherlock needed to disclose his findings to the jury, so he probably wouldn’t hear from the detective until tonight at the earliest, possibly not even until Friday. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed with the timing of the case Sherlock had been chosen for because, like Sherlock had said, it couldn’t have come at a worst time. John tried to remain positive about it though because it had given them the chance to try something new (the phone sex) and the time spent apart allowed John to sort his head out while he came to grips with what was being expected of him.

The rule of not being allowed to come did put a spanner in the works however, given how often he was used to masturbating when Sherlock wasn’t around to interrupt him, so that precise limitation meant that John would need to amend what would be his normal routine on a day’s holiday. It did leave him at a loss of what to do initially, so he supposed it was fate that the postman brought with him an unexpected letter.

John popped the last bit of toast into his mouth when he heard the drop of the post at the bottom of the stairs, signalling the arrival of more bills that they wouldn’t be able to settle until the end of the month. Sighing, he went down to retrieve it, putting Mrs Hudson’s post underneath her door for when she woke up and idly flicked through the other letters as he made his way back to the flat, pausing at one which was addressed to himself when he didn’t recognise the format. It was an unmarked letter with ‘Private and Confidential’ written at the top, but the typeface didn’t match any of the bills he was accustomed to receiving and he hadn’t signed up for anything that would require post to be sent to his home address. Chucking that particular envelope on the table, he pinned Sherlock’s post on the mantle under the knife before opening his own, eyeing the other letter on the table with interest as he totted up the amount of the bills in his hands.

That done, he went and opened the new letter gingerly, pulling out a single sheet of paper and quickly ascertaining that it was a list of test results for STIs. It was only when he checked the name of the individual concerned, a Mr Sherlock Holmes, that he finally understood the significance of what it was he held in his hands though. Mentally counting back the days, he realised that the tests had been completed the day after Sherlock had taken him to the BDSM club the first time, the day after Sherlock had seen his reaction to Eric’s paddling. So either Sherlock had been terrifically presumptuous or, as John was suspecting to be the case, the detective had taken what was a logical step in his own mind to ensure that he was safe before entering into a sexually active relationship.

Of course John also remembered the time when Greg had tried to force Sherlock’s hand with a fake drugs bust during their first case together. Sherlock had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to shut up in front of the DI, so John knew that Sherlock had had a history with drug abuse although he didn’t know the full extent of it. His flatmate had never bothered to go into the specifics of what drugs he’d been on either but, looking at the results he had now, he knew it had bothered Sherlock enough to make sure he was clean.

And the tests confirmed that Sherlock was clean; there was no doubt about it. No HIV or AIDS, no Chlamydia (that test alone told John that the other man must have had sexual partners in the past otherwise he wouldn’t have been tested for it); in fact, all of the routine tests for STIs came back negative and, if nothing else, the report gave John an idea of what direction Sherlock was planning to go in their relationship without him explicitly having to say so.

Or maybe it would be better if he got Sherlock to clarify what this meant… The detective had a habit of assuming that John would understand everything that was aimed at him but, sometimes more often than not, he still needed Sherlock’s ability to deduce what it was in front of him. Sure, a clean report could mean that the other man wanted them to be exclusive if unprotected sex was involved and also hinted at some of the activities they might get up to in the future, but having Sherlock send him a report and the other man actually say what he meant were two completely different things.

It didn’t mean that John couldn’t think about it while Sherlock was away. A half-smile forming on his lips, he wandered to the kitchen and made himself another strong brew, a quiet chuckle escaping him when he gave his imagination permission to run wild.

 

oOo

The rest of the week passed in a blur, with Sherlock’s contact being sporadic at best until the detective landed in London on the Saturday almost as planned. His flight had been delayed by more than half a day due to the snow storms in Russia so, by the time the plane landed back in the UK, it had gone half seven in the evening. Not that John was concerned. The detective had been sure to make John aware of what was happening in both Russian and UK airspace so he was well aware of when Sherlock _wouldn’t_ be back, giving him time to make sure he was in the right head-space before his flatmate returned.

The sound of the front door slamming was the only thing that preceded Sherlock’s arrival back into 221B, the steps being taken two at a time until Sherlock came into the living room in a swirl of coat, scarf and the accumulated arrogance of a job well done. The man was practically glowing, his face red from the cold wind with flakes of snow in his hair and his mouth turned up in a smile when he finally looked at John.

John had been quietly making his own appraisal of Sherlock as the other man turned to close the door, feeding off of the energy Sherlock was radiating with an enthusiasm that almost stunned him. The flat had been mess free with Sherlock’s departure, and quiet, but it had also been _boring_. Positively mind-numbing and his day at the surgery yesterday had been no better; a string of runny noses, three people who were convinced they had swine flu and a toddler who’d gotten into a bottle of Calpol when his parents had their backs turned. Dull, boring, tedious. Accurate descriptors only made all the more sharp when he realised that he’d missed Sherlock; the mess, the noise, the constant demands for time that John couldn’t really give him but did anyway. All of it.

“Miss me?”

The question was directed at John while Sherlock was taking off his coat, slinging it onto the back of the sofa before looking back to where John was seated in his chair. Sherlock already knew the answer of course but John hadn’t been trying to hide anything. There were very few things one could hide from Sherlock, and he was better at it than most because of the almost daily interactions they had anyway, but John didn’t want to hide anything from him. Let Sherlock read him like an open book. That didn’t mean he couldn’t stash things between the pages when Sherlock wasn’t looking.

“John?”

Jolted out of his thoughts, John looked up to see Sherlock holding a hand out to him, beckoning with a slight tilt of his index finger. Grinning, he got up out of his chair and took the proffered hand, the action smooth and without pause until he was pressed against Sherlock’s front with his face buried in the other man’s neck, their arms wrapped securely around each other. “Always,” he murmured into the skin at Sherlock’s throat, sighing when Sherlock turned his head so he had his nose buried in John’s hair at his temple.

He felt Sherlock’s hands rub along his back slowly, idly wandering up to his shoulder blades and back down to the small of his spine, pressing into the muscles there. The detective audibly inhaled and then lowered his mouth to John’s right ear, pressing his lips to the lobe and the skin of his neck behind it. John felt his body freeze when the touch became more intimate; his eyes shooting open against Sherlock’s neck when he felt a tongue slide over that same lobe to draw it between teeth where it was nibbled on fondly. “Do you have…” another lick. “Any idea…” a light suck between pursed lips. “How _distracting_ you’ve been this past week?”

John shuddered against Sherlock with the attention to one of his most sensitive erogenous zones, his breath coming out in drawn out sighs at the tingles spreading through his body. “How have I been, _unh God_ , distracting you? I wasn’t even with you.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock said, drawing back so they could look each other in the eye. “Ever since our little phone call, all I could think about was your pretty fingers buried inside that tight arse of yours and it’s been driving me insane.”

John grinned, his lips forming an ‘O’ when Sherlock took a hold of his hips so he could grind his body against John’s stomach. So he could press his very hard cock against John’s body. “Has that been a bit of a problem?”

“So you finally observe,” Sherlock murmured, a low growl finishing the words when one grind was particularly satisfying.

This was mad. It was insane actually, but John couldn’t stop it from forming inside his head, his eyes fluttering as a thought solidified itself and pounded against the barriers that he hadn’t done a good job of putting up in the first place. Besides, it would feel so good wouldn’t it? Sherlock was hard; hard enough that it was overriding his ‘my body is just transport’ mode, and he’d obviously done such a good job with the case in Moscow that surely he deserved a reward of some sort. And John had been so bloody _patient_ and the evidence of his lover’s desire for him, stiff against his belly, was enough to make him toss all sense of decency out the window because he wanted satisfaction and he wanted it now. Right here, against the door that Mrs Hudson could try to walk through at any moment and he’d run out of fucks to give because it would be perfect and good and Sherlock was _home_.

He slid his hands from Sherlock’s back, pressing his thumbs into the man’s hip bones to get a good grip on them before insistently pushing back, Sherlock’s mouth turning up in a smirk as he allowed John to press him back against the door. Tilting his head up, John took Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss, a faint brush of lips and then deeper, tracing Sherlock’s bottom lip with his tongue to absorb the plushness of it, seized with a desire to suckle on it until it popped from his mouth with a vibrant red hue. The desire was so strong that he was unable to deny it, eventually reaching a point where he was swapping between the top and bottom lip until both were flushed from his nibbling. Sherlock’s breath was panting over his mouth when John finally slid his tongue inside to meet Sherlock’s, pressing their mouths together to swallow each other’s gasps. After several moments, when John was happy that he’d reacquainted himself with Sherlock’s taste and the sensation of the other man pressed close to him, he decided that it was time to escalate the intensity. Taking his hands from Sherlock’s hips, he slid his hands between their bodies and undid Sherlock’s jacket, tugging at the crisp, white shirt until it pulled free of his dress trousers and letting his hands slide underneath the fabric to stroke across Sherlock’s abdomen.

Sherlock stuttered a breath into John’s mouth, huffing a little when John’s hand inadvertently tickled and gasping when John’s fingers found the clasp to his belt, undoing it swiftly and working on the button at the top. Above the heavy sound of their breathing the noise of the zip being lowered was a loud noise and it spurred Sherlock onto further action. One of his hands slid around John’s neck to deepen the kiss while the other pushed between their bodies and cupped at John’s growing erection softly, palming the length of him from root to tip. John groaned at the feeling of Sherlock’s hand on him, those dexterous fingers mapping the contours of his erection almost perfectly through the fabric of his jeans before sliding lower to tease at his balls. He’d always been a man who enjoyed the occasional grind with a partner with all their clothes on, the intimacy of being touched through fabric somehow making the resulting orgasm more powerful, but his past experiences didn’t hold a torch to what it felt like being touched by Sherlock Holmes. They’d barely been together for a week and already his previous relationships felt like dull embers when compared to the flare that Sherlock set off inside him; the fact that the other man knew him so well just made it all the more exhilarating.

John had barely finished lowering the zip before Sherlock’s hand slid up from his neck into his hair, tightening his fingers in it and pulling John’s head away from his own so they could look at each other. The tension in the room seemed to snap into focus when John made eye contact with Sherlock, his hand freezing before he had a chance to reach inside to feel that impressive erection for the first time. The fingers in his hair clenched briefly, tugging at the strands until John felt his eyes water, and when he opened his eyes again Sherlock’s were gleaming. “Kneel.”

Groaning at Sherlock’s command (and at the resultant lick the detective gave his lips when he made the sound), John kneeled at Sherlock’s feet, gasping when Sherlock stroked across his mouth with his thumb. He eyed the opening of Sherlock’s trousers, watching as the cock inside them twitched and throbbed beneath Sherlock’s silk boxers, and felt an answering pulse in his own trousers. Being as close as he was, it wasn’t long before a different smell reached him, muskier, a dark tang at the back of his throat when he inhaled and he had the sudden desire to keep breathing in until his lungs were at capacity, full of that glorious aroma and unwilling to let it go. He heard Sherlock make a small noise above him, the noise when a particularly satisfying deduction entered his mind, and John looked up as Sherlock’s hands left his head and neck.

The other man’s eyes were half-lidded with desire, no doubt having seen John’s reaction to the smell of Sherlock at his groin and his breathing barely restrained from becoming all-out panting. “Do it.”

Unsure what it was Sherlock wanted, but having a pretty good idea because of the position he was currently in, John hesitated for a brief second before firming his resolve, leaning forward on his knees and pressing his face to the open V in Sherlock’s trousers. And, God, the scent was so much stronger here. He greedily inhaled, intent on fulfilling his earlier desire, and pushed his nose against the zip until it opened more so he could brush his lips against the hardness straining towards him.  

Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth as John’s lips came into contact with his erection, his fingers threading through John’s hair in silent encouragement. John couldn’t believe he was actually doing this, couldn’t have foreseen that one day he’d be on his knees for another man having their groin pressed against his face, but he certainly couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. The very fact that it was Sherlock’s groin was enough to make his whole body shudder with pleasure, the silk caressing his lips and the flesh beneath it as he moved his mouth over the areas that had been uncovered. The teasing strokes must have been driving Sherlock mad given the small noises that were being emitted above his head, and John allowed a small smirk to lift a corner of his mouth before devoting himself to the task at hand. After a few more minutes, and feeling slightly bolder, he opened his mouth and licked at Sherlock’s cock through his boxers, finding the tip and swirling his tongue around it until the fabric was moist with his saliva. Sherlock made a sharp noise above him, _‘sensitive,’_  before tugging on John’s head to pull him back from his exploration, hatefully cut short. “Take me out.”

 _‘God, yes.’_  With shaking fingers, John brought his hands up to Sherlock’s trousers, reaching into them to palm Sherlock’s erection. Christ, he could almost feel the weight of it in his hands. He found the opening for Sherlock’s boxers within moments but wasn’t sure if Sherlock wanted him to take him out through that opening or whether Sherlock wanted the front of his boxers pushed down so he could reach his balls as well. It didn’t take John long to decide, opting to pull the boxers down so the elastic cupped underneath Sherlock’s testicles, tugging at the man’s trousers to loosen them around his hips so his underwear wouldn’t be restricting. Sherlock’s cock bobbed in front of his face, pointing at him like a thick, sordid finger with a faint arch near the tip, a delicate curve that became more pronounced when the member twitched.

Sherlock’s hands withdrew from his head, instead reaching for John’s own hands where they were still placed on his hips. “Feel me, John,” he murmured, coaxing John’s hands towards his groin.

John didn’t really need the encouragement but followed Sherlock’s movements, holding his breath when the fingers of his left hand were close enough to feel the heat radiating from Sherlock’s cock, and gasping outright when it twitched and made contact with them. He’d never touched another man here before without latex gloves and the mental barrier that was always there between a patient and their doctor, so to feel it in another form, with that awareness of his own desire and of the person in front of him, was a new experience entirely.

Sherlock didn’t say anything when he tentatively curled that hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock, giving John the opportunity to savour it without his intervention and something which John was grateful for. He wanted to learn Sherlock’s body from scratch with the freedom to make his own conclusions about what Sherlock liked and didn’t like and whether he was doing a good job at it. Unlike medical school (where he’d spent long evenings bent over textbooks the size of his arm), this kind of practice was definitely more appealing.

He decided to start with things he knew he liked having done to his own body, making small changes to account for the size difference between their respective organs, _‘not **that** big a difference,’_ his mind interjected, and slowly taking in how it felt to have Sherlock’s erection in his hands. Sherlock was uncircumcised but his foreskin didn’t droop over the head, just enough there to allow for a smooth glide of skin against skin without being excessive. John started with a gentle stroking motion, starting at the base and moving up to the tip, experimenting with a light twist at the head and inhaling sharply when his fingers came away sticky after the fourth stroke.

Pulling those fingers away, he saw the shine on them and glanced up at Sherlock, seeing the smirk on the other man’s face. “I’ve had a long time to think about you in this position,” Sherlock said, an explanation and a completely unrepentant one at that. Unbidden, Sherlock’s STI results flashed through John’s head and he unconsciously licked his lips, watching as Sherlock’s eyes darkened at the small action. Holding Sherlock’s eyes, John brought his fingers to his mouth, sliding his tongue out to lick at them and unable to stop his eyes from shutting at the first burst of Sherlock’s flavour over his taste-buds. Salty, a briny tang with the distinctive musk of something that was all Sherlock, and completely unlike the taste of a woman. He kept licking at his fingers, cleaning them of Sherlock’s pre-come and chasing the last traces of it until he was sure there wasn’t a morsel left, only glancing up when he heard the bitten-off moan that Sherlock gave above him. “I take it you’ve seen the report.”

Nodding, John lowered his hand, _‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’_  and leant forward again, opening his mouth and swiping his tongue across Sherlock’s slit, an unrestrained whimper in his throat as more of Sherlock’s flavour filled his mouth. Sherlock’s hips thrust forward at the contact, the other man groaning deeply when John circled his tongue around the head, taking in the flavour of Sherlock’s skin and the need he could feel in the tension of Sherlock’s thighs and in the straining of his cock. It was so _different_ , he thought, letting his lips slide over until they met the ridge between the shaft and the tip, sucking gently and stroking with his tongue. Soft in a way, almost unbearably sensitive and Sherlock’s responses were so beautiful, even with someone like him who had no experience whatsoever. With almost every throb of Sherlock’s cock, more pre-come leaked onto his tongue and John squeezed his eyes shut, the better to concentrate on what he was doing to try and make the detective give him more, wondering briefly if he could make Sherlock come this way and whether he would be able to swallow it down because it couldn’t be that different from his own come and he’d had no trouble the last time. 

Sherlock’s hands slid into his hair again; more purposeful in their intent and holding his head steady so he could begin to thrust into John’s mouth. Slowly at first, giving John time to adjust to the motion of it, a gradual slide in until the head brushed against his soft palette mouth (but never venturing further back because somehow Sherlock knew that John wasn’t ready for that yet, the sensation of a cock pressing to the back of his throat), and then retreating until just the very tip remained inside. Jesus, had Sherlock been this big when John saw it for the first time?

Between the turmoil of his thoughts, _‘There’s a cock in my mouth, there’s a cock in my mouth,_  Sherlock _is in my mouth,’_  and concentrating on trying to keep his mouth and throat relaxed, it was probably a given that John would forget about his own arousal for a time, but eventually the tightening in his trousers was too much to bear and his fingers scrabbled at his jeans, undoing the top button and sliding the zip down to relieve some of the pressure.  Almost of their own accord, his boxers were pushed down so his cock sprang free from underneath them, moaning desperately at the first jolt of pleasure when he curled a hand around himself and tugged at his length.

Sherlock noticed what he was doing (how could he not, a man as observant as he was), but John wasn’t prepared for what happened next. The fingers in his hair tightened again, pulling his head back while he was still sucking so his mouth made a popping sound when Sherlock’s cock was removed. “Did I give you permission to touch yourself?”

Gasping, John pulled his hands away from his body, planting them beside his hips and ordering himself not to move despite the intense ache between his thighs. “No, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s right hand came underneath his chin, tilting his head up so John could see his face, relief spreading through him when Sherlock didn’t look angry or disappointed; definitely aroused and maybe a little domineering, but not anything that gave John cause for real concern. “You haven’t come,” Sherlock said after a moment, “but I think a little positive reinforcement is in order. Good submissives wait for their masters to command them; they _do not_  take matters into their own hands.”

“I’m sorry,” John murmured, a flash of shame pooling in his stomach and there was something seriously wrong with him because Sherlock’s words just made him harder, so much that it felt like he was about to burst and surely Sherlock could see that.

The hand left his chin, bringing those fingers up to his mouth where they traced his lips. “Give me your safe words.”

Oh, there was only one reason Sherlock would be asking him for those… “Warten and Arrêter,” John replied after a second, shutting his eyes when Sherlock’s hand left his face and swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Stand up,” Sherlock said, pulling his own trousers up around his hips and putting his erection away before stepping around John’s kneeling body. John was quick to follow the order, watching Sherlock walk towards the table and move the items off of it, creating a clear surface and then turning back to John. “Come here.”

Given his recent disobedience, John didn’t hesitate, walking over to Sherlock and following his direction when hands pushed him over at the waist until John was bent across the table, his elbows on the edge of it and his hips tilted up in an inviting curve. The vulnerability of his position wasn’t lost on him, especially when Sherlock walked behind him and smoothed his hands along John’s flanks, palming his buttocks and dipping his fingers into the crook of his hip bones. “God, Sherlock,” he whispered, pressing his burning face into his arms as Sherlock’s hands reached around his waist and pulled his jeans and boxers down, baring his arse to the air until they pooled around his feet. But Sherlock didn’t remove his clothes entirely, leaving them tangled around his ankles so he couldn’t spread his legs any wider, the small restraint working wonders on John’s mind. Sherlock wanted him helpless and having his jeans as they were meant he wouldn’t be able to leave in a hurry.

Without any preamble, thumbs dipped into the crease of his arse and pulled at the muscles until his hole was exposed to the detective, Sherlock’s small hum of appreciation filling John’s ears. “You look even better than I imagined,” Sherlock murmured, his thumbs slipping out of the crease and staying on his buttocks, squeezing at them a few times before releasing him entirely. “Are you ready?”

John’s breath escaped him in a rush because _fuck yes_ , God, he’d been ready the instant Sherlock walked through the door, needing the pain that he was sure Sherlock was going to give him now even as his body trembled on the table and his breathing quickened in anticipation. He reached out with his hands so they were spread on the table, trying to give himself an anchor before he gave Sherlock his answer. “I’m ready.”

_Smack!_

“Unh, God!” Sherlock’s hand slapped onto his right buttock, the pain jolting through him even as he breathed through it, already anticipating the next one, and the next one, and the next...

_Smack!_

_Smack!_

_Smack!_

He couldn’t stop his moaning as the strikes continued, hissing between his teeth when one bit especially hard on an area that was beginning to feel hot and swollen, but he didn’t ask Sherlock to stop even when he realised that Sherlock hadn’t specified how many smacks he would be giving. The animal part of his brain was more than happy with that, willing to bask in the _pain/pleasure_  that Sherlock was giving him and arching his body in a clear signal for Sherlock to continue his discipline. Could it still be called discipline if he was getting off on it? Christ, _yes,_  he was definitely getting off on it, a growl erupting from his throat when Sherlock laid four slaps across the same patch of skin so it flared with bright agony, his eyes rolling back in his head at the sensation.

An eternity later the smacks stopped and John wondered how he’d lasted as long as he had without this. He was soaked through with sweat, his shirt clinging to him beneath his jumper and he just _knew_  his hair had gone a bit spiky on top, the way it always did after a strenuous workout. His buttocks were really smarting, a mass of red, stinging flesh that ached when he tensed the muscles there and he gasped again when Sherlock’s hand, his right, gently cupped his right cheek to feel the heat coming off of his skin. John’s face pressed against the table, his breath misting the wood beneath him as he tried to catch some of it back and sobbing when Sherlock, _‘viciously,’_  his mind accused, pinched once at his glutes, sparking the fire anew. “Fucking hell, Sherlock,” he groaned, pressing his forehead into the table when his erection pulsed between his legs at the rough treatment.

“I did say some positive reinforcement was in order,” Sherlock said, his hands circling John’s hips and pulling them back so he could grind his cloth-covered erection against John’s tender skin, the grip tightening when John yelped. “I didn’t say that you would achieve orgasm because of it.” Sherlock’s hands left John’s hips, his entire body in fact, and John kept his face down as he heard Sherlock rummaging around behind him, flinching when he heard a sharp click. “Although when I think about it,” Sherlock drawled, and John’s eyes shot open when a new wetness formed between his buttocks and centred on his hole, “you might not be able to help yourself after this.”

There was a small pause, just enough time for John to realise that it was one of Sherlock’s fingers against his arse, and then it was pushed inside all the way down to Sherlock’s first knuckle, slick with warmed lube that the other man must have had in his Belstaff pocket. “Arrrgh, God!” His body immediately tensed with the intrusion, his hands scrambling uselessly under him as Sherlock began to thrust with that same finger, a gradual withdrawal with a continuous swirl inside him until the rim of his opening was being rubbed with the pad of Sherlock’s finger and then pushing back in. “Fuck! Fuck, Sherlock…”

“You’re so tight,” Sherlock murmured, crooking his finger and stroking up along John’s inner walls until he found the little nodule he’d been looking for, teasing around it but never pressing into it, testing the strength of John’s reaction to the new stimulation of his prostate. “You must have clenched around your fingers beautifully when you had them buried inside you that night,” he said, doing something with his finger that made John moan and thrash beneath him, “wishing all the time that they were mine instead because you wanted to know if you could take it.”

John shut his eyes weakly at Sherlock’s words, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as his body began to urgently thrust back to meet Sherlock’s finger, already longing for the stretch of two because he knew he could handle it and he wanted to learn the shape of Sherlock this way too, see how it was Sherlock would fit inside his body. He felt Sherlock’s finger withdraw and had barely a moment to register it before a second one squirmed its way alongside the first, twisting and pumping into him so he could get used to the burn they created. His own fingers had never felt this good, never felt this _right_ , and Sherlock’s fingers were so long and elegant and turning him inside out so that there was nothing left but the feeling of them inside him.

_Smack!_

“Oh fu-!” Now that had _hurt_ but it felt so good, his arse clenching with the smack of Sherlock’s left hand while his fingers carried on with their slow thrusting. “God, again,” he gasped, twisting his head around to look at Sherlock over his shoulder. “Do that again,” he pleaded, “oomph,” coming from him when Sherlock forced his head back down to the table with his left hand and growled in his ears.

“Naughty submissives don’t get to order their Doms around, John,” Sherlock said darkly, withdrawing his fingers from John’s arse and moving away from him. When John went to turn around to see where Sherlock was going, Sherlock’s quick, “stay where you are,” stalled all movement and he hurriedly went back to his first position, anxiously waiting to see what Sherlock would do next. “It’s time for me to test your limits,” Sherlock said when he came back, resting one hand on the small of John’s back and stroking in what was meant to be a soothing motion, but John couldn’t think about anything else beyond the test Sherlock was speaking of. “It will take a large degree of trust from you on your part, and you have your safe words if things become too intense for you, but we are doing this my way or not at all. If you don’t feel you’re ready for this, say so now.”

 _‘Ready for what?’_ John thought, panting against the table and trying to get his befuddled mind in some semblance of order. Which was a study in uselessness because all he could think about was Sherlock’s fingers buried inside him just a moment ago, wanting them back inside so he could fuck himself stupid on them and probably have the strongest orgasm ever in the process. But what Sherlock was suggesting… More pain? Domination? God help him, the thoughts were enough to make him tremble, a noise betraying his need filling the room around him and only realising at the last moment that it was _him_ , that he was making that sound. “Yes, Sherlock,” he whispered, clearing his throat and trying again. “Yes, Sherlock, I want this,” which was better, stronger and full of conviction.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock said, right by his ear now, Jeez, when had the other man moved? “That was exactly what I was hoping you’d say,” before a blindfold was tied over his eyes. 

_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *snicker* 
> 
> I'm such a tease....
> 
> A/N 2: Just a quick aside from the plot I’ve already got going for this story, if you can think of a Scene you’d like to see happen, or just a plotline in general, please let me know and I’ll see if I can work it in. 
> 
> I haven’t decided whether this will be mostly porn without plot or whether I’ll put some angst in, but I’m interested in seeing what you all think. After all, I am writing this all for you as much as I am myself *wink* 
> 
> Some of my lovely reviewers have also wondered whether I’ll be doing any scenes from Sherlock’s POV. I must admit, I am sorely tempted but it will probably be something I’ll start after Perihelion is finished in its entirety and will probably involve the scenes people liked the most from John’s POV, translated over to Sherlock’s. If this is something you’d like to see in the future please let me know ^^
> 
> And, while I’m working on part ten (part TEN, people, who knew it’d get this far!), here are some virtual hugs, kisses and biscuits (because I’m a British girl and we have biscuits!) for you all to thank you for your continued support and patience!
> 
> Darkangel1211 xxx


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: *Peeks over the sofa waving a white flag* Ummmm… hello! Yes, I’m still here, I haven’t forgotten about you all, I promise! 
> 
> I know this part has been a long time coming but I think you’ll understand why when you read it. Jeez, this was a pain to write, but oh so worth it! 
> 
> As always, my thanks and gratitude go to everyone who is supporting this story, both past and present. I know I haven’t responded to everyone’s comments but that doesn’t mean I value them any less! You’re all wonderful! 
> 
> Before I forget, please check out the A/N at the end of part nine if you haven’t already – feel free to respond to them if you so desire, it’s my way of saying thank you! 
> 
> Enjoy!

John inhaled sharply as the fabric settled around his eyes, small adjustments made to the placement to ensure that he couldn’t see a thing before it was tied securely. The smell struck him right from the off, Sherlock’s scent, with the texture of the cloth against his skin reaching a close second, and he realised that he’d been blindfolded with Sherlock’s scarf. The one he’d never had the opportunity to wear but had passed to Sherlock on numerous occasions, and now it was being used to strip him of his sight. _‘Oh dear God…’_

Gently, one of Sherlock’s hands left the knot at the back of his head and settled at the base of his neck, the heat of skin meeting skin making John shiver and causing the hair on his arms to rise in small goose-bumps. Sherlock’s other hand wasn’t motionless for long; sliding down his cloth-covered spine until it reached his coccyx and back up again, this time moving under John’s shirt and jumper so the skin of his back came alive with the feel of Sherlock’s hand against him, stroking his sides and counting his vertebrae with another pass. A side effect of the slow touching was that, with each upward stroke of Sherlock’s hand, John’s clothing was being pushed up as well, exposing more of his body and bunching the fabric up around his shoulders. Just the thought of it was enough to make John shake with desire, the image of having his body undressed in such a sensual manner prodding at him until all he could think about was tackling Sherlock down to the table and giving him the same treatment, just to see how the other man would respond. 

Above the heavy sound of his panting that the images inspired, John slowly became aware that it felt like he was waging a silent war with himself. On one side, the clasp around his neck made him yearn for surrender, to submit to the power being held over him where Sherlock had pinned him to the table, but the hand sliding over his back made him only too aware of the fact that Sherlock had plans for him. He knew they were going to venture into uncharted territory soon, thus bringing out his more dominant side, but, despite his natural inclination to meet power with power, he willed his mind into receptiveness because there was no need to be ready for a fight that wouldn’t ever arrive. He had his safe words and he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t really hurt him, not in a way that would be irreversible; he just had to keep it together.

John couldn’t say exactly how long he remained bent over the table with Sherlock standing over him, but as the minutes passed so too did his earlier urges, and he felt himself starting to relax. His hands uncurled from the fists they’d clenched themselves into and his gasping breaths slowed down until he was taking deep, measured ones, an odd sensation when he could still feel his erection bobbing between his legs, as stiff as it had been when he’d been sucking Sherlock off. As it turned out, his calmer state of mind was what Sherlock had been waiting for, a physical sign from John that he was ready for things to move ahead.

“Stand up,” Sherlock said, removing his hand from John’s neck and helping John get to an upright position when his arms trembled as he went to push up on them. His trousers were still tangled around his ankles, effectively disabling all movement, but Sherlock was quick to rectify that, the air swishing against his legs when the other man bent down to remove his feet from their confines. Being blindfolded, he couldn’t see what Sherlock did with his clothes (hoping that they weren’t being tossed out a window somewhere in Sherlock’s sudden haste), but it quickly became the furthest thing from his mind as Sherlock turned him on the spot so he was facing away from the table, his hands hanging at his sides.

Fingers grasped the hem of his jumper, pulling it up and over his head to expose his shirt underneath it and returning to undo the buttons of said shirt. Unlike the previous time when Sherlock had undressed him personally, there wasn’t a pause between each button (perhaps he was as impatient to get John naked as John was feeling) and he soon felt the warm air of the flat gliding over his freshly bared skin. There was a slight break after all his clothing had been removed and it gave him the heady sensation that every inch of his body was being appraised, the feeling confirmed when Sherlock spoke. “Look at you,” Sherlock breathed, taking John’s right hand in his own and gently guiding him a few steps away from the table. John couldn’t see where the other man was looking at him but he could certainly _feel_  it; Sherlock’s eyes were like laser beams and John was certain he’d see the burns left over for when the blindfold was removed; fancied that he would be able to see the scorched lines on his skin where he would be able to trace their shapes in a mirror later.

Sherlock’s fascination with his body continually astounded him, to be quite honest. Although he was still fit in body, John didn’t have the abs from his army days and the scar on the back of his shoulder had looked horrific when he’d first set eyes on it after his surgery, but none of these things deterred Sherlock from mapping out what had to have been trails he’d crossed numerous times before. If anything, those paths probably gave Sherlock another point of reference so he could accurately catalogue the differences in his body from the last time he’d been there, each point lovingly remembered. The effect must have only been increased with the addition of him being blindfolded, the vulnerability of it adding a different sensuality to the image he represented to the detective, and more than once he longed to see the look on Sherlock’s face. He knew he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to do the same to Sherlock’s body given the amount of time he’d seen the detective naked, and it was something he deeply wanted to rectify. Sherlock’s transport was nothing short of glorious, a perfect male specimen and seeing it in all its naked glory made a man want to do things to it; so much so that he wanted to pin Sherlock down to the nearest surface and-   

Just as he was starting to lose himself in the fantasy of doing _something_ to that body, Sherlock prompted movement from him again, slowly guiding him through the flat to what sense-memory told him was Sherlock’s bedroom. The air was slightly cooler than it had been in the living room, but not uncomfortably so, and he was stopped again while Sherlock went ahead of him, the sound of drawers being opened loud to his limited senses. He could clearly hear Sherlock’s movements in front of him as the blindfold had been tied above his ears rather than over them, but it still didn’t give him any clues as to what the other man was planning.

Once Sherlock finished rooting through his drawers, John heard more sounds; muffled _thumps_ of things hitting the bed but, in total, there were only two. He knew that the items that were heavy enough to make the sound, but if he knew Sherlock (which he did), than two noises couldn’t be relied upon as an indicator of what Sherlock was going to use on him, if he was going to use anything at all. _‘And I don’t have a clue what either of them are.’_

Eventually Sherlock must have been satisfied with the items he’d picked out because John heard Sherlock move and then felt the heat of the other man’s body press close to him from behind, Sherlock’s hands sliding across his hips and moving in a gradual sweep up his body until the tips of Sherlock’s fingers were making light circles around his nipples. John’s body immediately responded to the sensation, his cock jerking in an upwards motion against his belly as the tips were caught between the pads of Sherlock’s thumbs and forefingers and gently rotated, pausing to tug and pinch at them in-between.

Through the nipple play John could feel Sherlock’s breath against the nape of his neck and shoulders, deep breaths which supported John’s hope that Sherlock was finding this just as arousing as he was. Yet, despite the closeness of their bodies, no other touch was given to him; just the feel of those fingers massaging him until his hands were clenched into fists and his gaps had turned into breathy moans. “I’m going to introduce something new to this,” Sherlock said next to his right ear, his fingers leaving John’s chest so he could step around to John’s front, one hand drifting to John’s right nipple and gently pulling it away from his body until it began to throb with the tension. “As it’s something we haven’t done before, I want you to describe how it feels. In detail.”

While Sherlock was speaking, John felt the hard surface of something press at the base of his nipple where it was extended; he didn’t know whether it was unfortunate that he didn’t have time to guess what it was, only aware that it began with a small pinch on either side of his nipple until Sherlock released him from his fingers and then all thoughts dissolved into, ‘ _OhmyfuckingGod!’_

Even with the gentle preparation that Sherlock had given him, even with the solid belief that he liked pain on that area of his body, the pinch of whatever it was on that small bead of flesh hurt far more than Sherlock’s fingers ever had.  The unrelenting pressure made him growl in his chest and dig his fingernails into his palms in a conscious effort to breathe through it, his head tilting back until his neck was stretched at his throat. Christ, but it hurt! It hurt so much and his body still loved it, his cock a throbbing, swollen length which jerked with each beat of his heart and made him hyperaware of the clamp around his nipple. It had to be a clamp, it just had to be, but God knows what sort of clamp it was. As the ache gradually lessened and morphed into an intense heat, he could feel that the tip of the clamp was broad where it was pinching into his flesh, and the surface was smooth and free of any teeth or jaw like edges. That didn’t make it any less arousing and the image of his nipple being tormented in such a way slid like warm honey down his spine; the flesh swollen on his chest, aching and tender, but to be given no relief until Sherlock was finished with him. He groaned sharply as the clamp was flicked at the end, the shooting pain making him wince and jerk away as the fire tore through him.   

Sherlock’s answering moan was low and debauched, the sound muffled when John felt lips seal themselves around his left nipple to suckle it into stiffness while his right one still ached from the rough treatment. The suck ended with an audible _pop!_  before Sherlock’s tongue lightly traced around the nipple itself, pausing to flick the tip before drawing it back into that mouth where the dual sensation of being sucked and licked made John’s knees feel weak beneath him. “Ooohhh fuck… _yes_ …” and John’s breath hissed between his teeth when Sherlock’s mouth was removed and another clamp was fitted into place, the abrupt change from hot to cold to being clamped making him clench his eyes shut behind the blindfold.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock murmured, drawing away until John couldn’t feel his body heat anymore. “Tell me how it feels, John. I want to hear you.”

John wanted to, God did he want to, but, when he inhaled to speak, the clamp on his left nipple was flicked in the same way as the right had been and he couldn’t stop a shout escaping him as his chest throbbed with the pain. Gritting his teeth, he felt something wet between his legs, distracting him from the ache, and he quickly found that the wetness was coming from the tip of his cock. He realised that he was positively _dripping_ with want, leaking pre-come in a way that he’d never experienced before, and Sherlock hadn’t even touched him there.

“Yes, John. Exactly so,” Sherlock said, and John knew that he’d already answered Sherlock’s order but not in so many words. His body was doing the talking for him; the inarticulate growls and moans that he gave voice to when Sherlock touched him, testing his limits, and he couldn’t have been more thankful for it. Words seemed like a distant memory, sentences a thing of the past, but he knew Sherlock understood him; however he didn’t have time to reflect any further on it. All at once, his mind focussed itself on a light touch at the base of his erection, the pad of a finger pressing into the vein underneath and then slowly dragging up along his cock to the tip. The moisture was being spread as the finger worked its way up to the flushed head, his body twitching when the pad of that finger settled on his slit and rubbed that fluid into the skin around it, a sensual massage that halted any attempts at logical thought in its tracks. Once all the moisture had been collected, the finger left his cock and John heard the sound of that finger being sucked between lips, the noise perverse and loud as he listened to Sherlock clean pre-come from his skin.

 _'Oh God, oh fuck, fucking God.’_ John knew he was making noise when Sherlock’s finger popped free of his mouth. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop it, realised he didn’t want to stop. He’d never had any trouble voicing his pleasure for the benefit of previous lovers, but knowing it was Sherlock he was making them for… Knowing that it was Sherlock’s hands on him, putting clamps on his nipples, licking John’s DNA from his skin so when he swallowed it would become a part of him… A pulse ignited in his groin, an urgent fire spreading through him at his thoughts.

Without warning, the clamp on his right nipple was flicked again, startling him, and then the left, alternating between the two until John was making animal noises in his throat, resisting the urge to step back, to get away from the pain as Sherlock continued torturing his nipples. His hands were shaking and he was dripping with sweat by the time Sherlock was finished, but the agony… God, the agony was _beautiful._ It still hurt, yes, but the pain wasn’t a single layer anymore. It was layer upon layer upon layer, building up until it started to become something else. He didn’t have a word for it but it felt distinctly like _not pain_.

“Clench your teeth,” Sherlock ordered softly and John obeyed without question, grateful for Sherlock’s forethought when his jaw seized as Sherlock released the clamp on his right nipple, then the left, discarding them somewhere and returning with his hands, gently working his nipples through the cramps as blood tried to force its way into them. Christ, it hurt almost as much as the clamps did when they’d been put on him and his body was struggling to acclimatise to it, his legs shaking and his breathing unsteady.

“I know they weren’t on for very long,” Sherlock said, continuing the massage as John’s body gradually breathed through the pain and settled in a place somewhere in-between, “but, as you’ve never had nipple clamps before, we’ll start slowly for now.” Once Sherlock was satisfied that the blood flow in John’s nipples was back to normal, if leaving the nubs a little tender and sore, his fingers left John’s body and the detective stepped to John’s right-hand side, one hand settling on the small of his back and urging him forward. Warm breath huffed into his ear when Sherlock pressed his body against his side, his hand settling on John’s right shoulder and insistently pressing down. “Kneel,” Sherlock murmured, sweeping that hand down John’s arm to tangle with his fingers briefly and then releasing him so he could follow the order.

Biting his lower lip between his teeth, John lowered himself to the ground, startling only slightly when his knees came into contact with Sherlock’s pillows instead of the carpet he expected to feel. He followed Sherlock’s directions, bending at the waist and gasping when he was pressed face-first into Sherlock’s bed sheets with his legs spread on the pillows and his hands on the silk beneath his head. Sherlock guided him until only his head and neck were on the bed, his arms being used for support on the mattress and leaving the entire expanse of his torso facing the floor, his nipples blessedly free of further stimulation for the time being. “Don’t move,” Sherlock said once he was in position, walking around his body and only stopping when John felt the other man kneel directly behind him.

Despite wanting to keep an ear out for what Sherlock was doing, it did nothing to distract John from the fact that his body had been placed in a very particular way; the same way as over the table, he realised. The pillows were there to stop his knees from hurting, which told him that he shouldn’t expect to be let up any time soon, and his hips had been arched upwards, exposing his arse and groin for further exploration. His body had also been positioned so, when he was bent over the bed, there would be no contact between his erection and the objects around him. In fact, any physical contact with his cock seemed miles away at this point and John was abruptly reminded that he wasn’t here for his own pleasure. Sherlock had said ‘positive reinforcement’, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he would enjoy it overall.

A tap to his hip brought him back into focus, his hands twisting into the sheets as he became acutely aware of the slickness between the cheeks of his arse, the faint traces of lube sticking to his skin from where Sherlock had fingered him open just moments ago. Sherlock didn’t seem in any rush to be back where he’d been though, instead sliding his hands around John’s hips and moving them up, a light, teasing touch that went all the way up to his shoulders before running back down to his hips again. From there they went lower still, trailing through the hair on his thighs and moving until those fingers tickled the backs of his knees. John huffed a laugh when Sherlock persisted with the tickling for a second, the touch becoming more sensual again as the detective’s hands slid back up his legs and palmed his sore buttocks, the thumbs rotating the muscles as the fingers clenched into them. The detective was still fully dressed (he even had his suit jacket on), but the hardness pressing against his backside left nothing to the imagination at how Sherlock was feeling.      

“You have no idea what I’m going to do to you,” Sherlock said, leaning over John’s body until John could feel almost every inch of Sherlock against his skin, the man’s hands leaving his arse and wrapping long arms around his chest. “Have no idea how long I’ve waited to get you like this… Just this, blindfolded over my bed, spread open and waiting for my touch.” The hands on his torso hadn’t stopped in their motion, fingers following the lines of his collar bones and dipping into the ridges between his ribs, and John had the distinct feeling that this would all end up in the study of Doctor John H Watson, taxonomy of physical attributes. Christ, he was being felt up by his lover and it still felt like he was being examined, assessed, _deduced_.

“How long?” he asked, voice jumping when Sherlock’s fingers ran over his aching nipples. “How long have you been waiting for me?”

Abruptly Sherlock’s hands stopped stroking his nipples and instead pressed upwards, pushing John’s body back into Sherlock’s as the other man brought them to an upright kneeling position. “Keep your arms by your sides,” Sherlock said, bringing his right hand under John’s chin and encouraging him to tilt his head back, to lean his weight against Sherlock’s body. “For longer than you might anticipate,” and it took John a moment to understand that Sherlock had answered his question from before, albeit with a very indirect answer.  

Before he had a chance to query the words with Sherlock, the hand under his chin moved up so the fingers were against his lips, stroking them lightly before pressing down on them and prompting John to open his mouth. He didn’t need much encouragement, taking Sherlock’s fingers between his lips and drawing them inside so he could lick at them with his tongue. Overriding the musk of the other man’s skin, John could faintly taste a trace of antiseptic gel and he moaned deeply when he knew he was sucking on the fingers that had been inside him, now clean and sterile of any bacteria that may have been left on them. God, just the thought of it made him hips jerk forward reflexively and Sherlock’s quiet chuckle against his neck wasn’t helping.

“I knew you’d probably have reservations if I decided to make you suck them after where they’ve been,” Sherlock said, planting kisses down John’s neck as he thrust his fingers deeply into John’s mouth. “So I took precautions.”

John was helpless to respond, the sounds of him sucking on Sherlock’s fingers almost overriding the words being spoken to him, and he nearly felt a thick tendril of shame when he realised that he probably _wouldn’t_ have minded even if Sherlock had made him do that. He’d cleaned himself thoroughly before-hand, something he had experience of when he’d had physical exams before, so it wasn’t really that big a deal for him and just knowing where Sherlock’s fingers had been was making him ache in all the right ways.

Sherlock, damn him, was all too quick to pick up on it, the sharp inhale of his breath against John’s neck making him shiver. “So you _do_ like the sound of it,” Sherlock said, teeth latching onto John’s ear lobe and nibbling on it. “You do know how depraved it is, don’t you? Tasting yourself there and knowing that it’s the filthiest thing you can do to yourself.”

John’s eyes clenched shut behind his blindfold with Sherlock’s words, the faint shame he felt earlier blossoming into a full body shudder. Yes, it was filthy, and disgusting, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. _‘God, what won’t I do for this man?’_

The fingers in his mouth withdrew, sliding wetly down his chin and twisting into one nipple just to make John cry out with the shock of it before hands were tilting him forward again, back into the kneeling position over Sherlock’s bed. “Aren’t you relieved,” Sherlock murmured, his hands running down John’s body and stopping on his buttocks, kisses being laid from the top of his spine and working their way down until John felt the other man’s warm breath at the top of his cleft, “that I don’t have the same reservations.”

John barely had time to hear the words, much less process their meaning, when Sherlock’s thumbs pulled his cheeks apart and hot, wet slickness licked at him from his perineum to the base of his spine in one long glide. “Oh my God!” His hands fisted into the sheets and pulled at them as the sensation of Sherlock’s saliva cooling against his skin intensified the utter wrongness of it. Feeling Sherlock’s tongue _there_ , even only for a split second, was enough to turn him into a mindless, babbling mess and already he felt like begging for more. “God, Sherlock…”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock agreed, this time starting at the top and working his way down, his breath huffing down between John’s cheeks as his tongue slowly made its way south. John titled his hips up as far as they would go, trying to direct Sherlock in case the target wasn’t big enough, and outright moaning when Sherlock’s tongue slid over his entrance again and stayed there. It slowly circled his pucker, barely dipping into the centre and flicking across it before John’s cock throbbed with a new sensation that made him grit his teeth when he figured out what the other man was doing. Sherlock was kissing him there, breathy, open-mouthed kisses that reminded John of make-out sessions he’d had with other partners where neither party wanted to break contact between their lips and tongues, only this was far more sordid. Christ, he knew people did this, had seen his fair share of porn vids where this sometimes happened before anal sex, but he hadn’t been prepared for the almost painful _intensity_ of it. If he’d thought Sherlock’s fingers had felt good rubbing his hole, then Sherlock’s tongue, those eight muscle groups that brought women like Irene Adler to their _knees_ , felt bloody fucking fantastic!       

Gently, Sherlock’s mouth worked at his hole, the detective’s moans vibrating into John’s pucker and John couldn’t keep his own mouth shut for one second, it was so _good_. “Oh _God!_ God, Sherlock, that’s… More. Oh God _yes_ , more …” Each of his vocalisations seemed to spur Sherlock on, and John’s body tingled hotly all over when that tongue finally centred on his hole and began to push.

His head shot up from the bed when Sherlock’s tongue finally pushed past that first tight ring of muscle, John’s shout of pleasure drowning out Sherlock’s moans as that lithe muscle worked around the rim and coaxed it to relax further for deeper penetration. Spread out as he was with another man licking him into submission, John’s could honestly say he’d never thought of this happening to him before and now he didn’t think that he’d be able to live another day without it. The whole area was alive with nerve-endings, each sparking electric shocks through his groin and making him thrust his hips almost uncontrollably; back towards Sherlock to impale himself on that tongue and forwards into nothing but air and, oh Jesus, if _this_ was what Sherlock had meant by ‘positive reinforcement’, he certainly wasn’t to complain about it. In fact, his mouth seemed to have been rewired from his brain to his cock, murmurs of praise escaping him and incoherent noises growling in his chest when Sherlock pointed the tip of his tongue and began to fuck him with it. “Jesus fucking-! Oh God, Sherlock, harder… Argh yeah, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”    

Time ceased to have any meaning when Sherlock’s tongue finally slid from his hole, leaving him feeling open and desperately wanting Sherlock to continue despite the cramp the other man must have had in his jaw. “Please, Sherlock,” John moaned as he pressed his sweating face against the sheets, positive that his cock had to be drooling on Sherlock’s silk pillows by now. “Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t have to wait very long before one of Sherlock’s fingers pressed against his opening, letting go one of arse cheek so the detective could push that finger inside with barely any resistance until it was in to the first knuckle. The heat of the man’s body rose up behind him, pressing against his back as that finger began to gently thrust into him with Sherlock crooking his finger so he could alternately caress John’s prostate when it went deep. Sherlock mouthed at the back of John’s neck, his panting breaths an echo of John’s moans as the slow preparation continued, and he felt it when Sherlock smiled against his skin. “Will we have any aversions to a repeat in the future, John?”

Growling, he twisted around to where Sherlock’s voice was coming from and pressed his face into Sherlock’s neck, mouthing at the skin there and moaning when Sherlock moved his head so their lips met in a bruising kiss. All inhibitions cast away, he greedily thrust his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, his shock a palpable thing when sweet cherry filled his taste buds and he realised the detective was using flavoured lube.

And there was nothing Sherlock liked better than sweet cherry.

John moaned again, keeping the contact going for as long as Sherlock would let him before the kiss ended, resulting in him licking his lips to chase the last dredges of the sweet, sticky flavour that had smeared from Sherlock’s mouth to his. “Christ no,” was all he could manage, listening as Sherlock removed his finger and flicked a cap before returning with two fingers and more lube. He groaned deeply in his throat when those fingers pressed into him, the initial push easier now with Sherlock’s inventive preparation, and this time they pressed on either side of his prostate, rubbing around the edges of it and gently stroking across it. The feeling of having his gland pressed when he was fully aroused made him ache, almost as though he needed the bathroom, but as the stimulation continued each rhythmic stroke of Sherlock’s fingers caused an answering throb in his cock. A deeper, more intense throbbing.

Sherlock eventually pulled his body back from John’s torso, taking up the kneeling position behind him again judging by the heat of the detective’s thighs against the back of his own, and a third finger was slowly introduced. John winced behind the blindfold, breathing deeply to accommodate the extra finger and the shape they made when they pressed back into him, spreading his thighs a little more to open his body to Sherlock’s careful exploration. Deep inside, Sherlock’s fingers gradually separated themselves, stretching John’s hole until the fingers were side by side, one of either side of his prostate and the middle finger directly on top of it. The feel of it was maddening as Sherlock began to thrust his fingers, aiming for that small gland so, on every in-stroke, a jolt of pleasure would sweep through him, grunts and gasps escaping him when some thrusts were particularly forceful. The depth and angle of penetration was so different from what he’d been able to manage when he’d been lying on his bed, the thrust of Sherlock’s fingers so sure and decisive that a small part of him wished he’d been able to accept Sherlock there the first time in the shower. Knowing what he did now, of course it was a logical step for him to wait and gradually work himself into it, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to experience that again. Most of all, he wanted a wet, soapy detective preparing him for a hot, slow bout of anal play underneath the showerhead and, now that the fantasy was in his head, it was refusing to go away. Distantly, he told himself to remember that for when they were finished here.  

The thrusting eventually stopped, Sherlock’s fingers separating again in a final stretch of his arse before withdrawing, leaving him with a gaping feeling as his hole tried to close around nothing. _Oh…_  Something was very much _there_  now; something hot and hard and very much alive and, when Sherlock’s hands took a hold of his hips and pulled him back against Sherlock’s body, he realised that it was Sherlock’s very bare cock sliding in the crease of his arse. He moaned almost desperately, wondering when Sherlock had opened his trousers as his fingers twisted into the silk, trying to spread his legs further when the head of Sherlock’s cock began to rhythmically thrust against his hole. It never penetrated him, Sherlock instead choosing to rub his whole cock along John’s crack, hands pulling his cheeks apart so that every inch of that hardness could be felt against his twitching opening.

“Look at you,” Sherlock murmured, voice carnal as he slapped John’s right cheek and then guided his cock to nudge at John’s hole. “I could fuck you open right now,” and John’s breath caught in his throat when the pressure against his arse increased and he could feel his body opening for the head of Sherlock’s cock, the lube-slicked tip barely pressing inside him and suddenly that was all he wanted. Wanted Sherlock to take him over the bed, to fuck him silly until he couldn’t even remember his own name and he was so close to having that now, to feeling Sherlock lose control _inside_  him, God…

“Please… Please, Sherlock, fuck me. Fuck me, fu- aahh!” An aborted shout died in his throat when the pressure left him suddenly, the heat of Sherlock’s body shifting away from him and taking away the source of John’s desire, the very thing he wanted so badly that he sobbed once against the bed, his body shaking at having been denied.

“Ssshhh.” Sherlock’s body rose up from behind him, coming around to his head and gently carding his fingers through John’s sweat-soaked hair. John felt Sherlock’s lips press against the cheek that wasn’t buried in the sheets, coaxing his head up so his whimpers could be swallowed by Sherlock’s mouth. The kiss was deep and sensual, Sherlock’s tongue flicking against his own and drawing his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth so it could be suckled on, and then resuming the slow flicking.

John’s lips fell open against Sherlock’s, his body trying to respond in kind but he was _fucked_ , in almost every sense of the word. His mind felt like it had taken a holiday, leaving his body open and vulnerable, living only for the next breath, the next touch of Sherlock’s hands on him. “Please,” he pleaded against Sherlock’s lips. “I want you. I want this, more than anything, please don’t stop…” If he’d been allowed to move, to prostrate himself at Sherlock’s feet in a genuine act of complete submission, he would have without question. Was this how Eric felt when Will denied him of release, denied him the pleasure of feeling his Dom’s body against his own? How did he cope with it, this begging, this pleading, at the mercy of a man who lived to torment him? How did he _survive?_

“You’re almost there,” Sherlock said in a low voice, sliding a hand up to cup John’s cheek and stroking the skin of it with his thumb. “Be patient, John, just a little more…”

Could he? Could he do any more than this, was it even within his capabilities? Regardless of the direction of his thoughts, Sherlock was moving him again, pulling him to an upright position and firmly lifting him to his feet. The pins and needles began almost immediately, even with the pillows cushioning his knees, and he wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s arms to stop himself from collapsing. Manoeuvring with Sherlock supporting him was difficult, but thankfully it was only a short distance to the bed and John was soon laid on the mattress, his head settling on one of the pillows as he was positioned on his back. The knot of the blindfold was moved so it wasn’t digging into the back of his head, pulled to one side whilst ensuring he still couldn’t see anything, and hands slid up his thighs, encouraging him to spread his legs before the touch was taken away.

In another world, he heard the sound of clothes being shed, the fabric settling on the floor before the mattress dipped between his thighs, the heat of bare skin pressing against his own making his body arch up in an attempt for more. Hands pushed at his hips, holding him down until he stopped writhing against the covers, and then they began to move. Stroking over his thighs again, nails drawing trails on his skin where they pressed into him; moving up to his hips and across his abdomen, then up to his collar bones and pectoral muscles, tracing the shapes and mapping the areas where Sherlock found them particularly interesting. Those hands pressed into his own, bringing them up until they were pinned to the pillow he rested on, Sherlock’s hips nestling between his legs and bringing their erections together. The symmetry of the position to the one before their last shower together made John whimper, already bringing his legs up so his feet could press close to his legs, obscenely spreading them open and giving Sherlock room to act as he saw fit.

The detective was quick to take him up on it, a gentle rotation of cock against cock making John groan thickly at the feel of it as Sherlock bent his head down to John’s neck and pressed open-mouthed kisses to the skin there. There was still no contact between their torsos though, and John realised it was because Sherlock was preventing any pressure on his chest, not wanting to aggravate his nipples by pressing down on them so soon after their part had finished. John knew he ought to be thankful for it, the hindsight on Sherlock’s part, but what he really wanted was to feel the full length of Sherlock’s body pressed against him, from the top of his head and right down to the soles of his feet. He wanted to be smothered by him, until all he knew the feel of Sherlock against him, _inside him_ , but he was fast running out of ways to make that happen. Begging and pleading had gotten him this far, but he knew instinctively that it wouldn’t work now. What they were doing now, they were doing because Sherlock wanted them to. John’s own wants weren’t coming into it and it was driving him insane.

The frottage gradually stopped to his dismay, hands untangling themselves from his own and pressing down on them, a reminder to keep them where they were, before sliding down his body and resting on his hips. The pause barely lasted a minute, just a gentle shift of Sherlock’s body where it was sitting between his thighs (was he making himself _comfortable?_ ), and then those hands moved to his groin, stroking through his pubic hair and across the expanse of his stomach and thighs. John tried to ease his legs open a bit further but he soon realised that the shift was now working against him; it just gave Sherlock more areas to touch that _weren’t_ his cock and the display of him spreading himself had no effect on the speed Sherlock had decided to take. This was still Sherlock’s way, or not at all.

As time passed, the touches became more sexual, if not more intimate. Sherlock’s fingers began to brush against his erection, small strokes that barely lasted a few seconds before they were moving again, reaching down to his balls and rolling them gently in their sack. Sherlock’s hands were slick with lube, warmed by Sherlock’s body heat so when he coated the entirety of John’s groin with it, it didn’t have the shock it would have had if it’d been cold. It meant that each stroke had a smoothness to it that wouldn’t be there had John been dry and reminded him of the times when he’d been inside a woman, her wetness surrounding him and coating him until he felt drenched with her when she came on his cock. Except now it was Sherlock’s hands on him, coaxing the same responses from him, the same moans and gasps and hip jerks as his body tried to dictate the pace. Each time this happened it didn’t get him anywhere; Sherlock’s hands stilled whenever his hips moved, and John quickly tried to stop it. Only then did movement resume with each stroke and tug blending together until he wasn’t sure where one of Sherlock’s hands started and the other began.     

Between one touch and the next, John was beginning to feel himself unravel, like the thread of a woollen jumper caught on a nail. It was a slow process, so slow he hadn’t even noticed it, but as Sherlock reached down and pressed one finger into his arse, crooking that finger to caress his prostate, the splintering of it became earth- shattering. He shouted at the contact, his head pressing back into the pillow when Sherlock withdrew and added another finger, thrusting them into him as the hand other stayed on John’s cock, stroking underneath the glands with his thumb. _God,_ close now, so close to release that he could feel it bubbling in his gut, spreading through his limbs and he wanted to move, just a little, to aim Sherlock’s fingers just _there_ and, yes, God yes, just like that-

Abruptly, all movement stopped, his build to orgasm halted on the very precipice that he wanted to throw himself over. A strangled noise came from him, his nails cutting into his palms as the edge retreated, receding into memory, and all the while Sherlock kept still, no doubt watching him struggle to gain control of himself, the clash of doing what he wanted and doing what was expected of him reverberating in his skull. Seconds ticked over into minutes, each shaking breath counting the passage from one time to the next, and then Sherlock’s hands started moving again. Gently now, carefully, because they both knew it wouldn’t take much to get him to the brink again, slow, rhythmic, the sound of the lube squelching in Sherlock’s grip and the sensation of his hole clenching greedily around Sherlock’s fingers, his breathing stopping for a moment when another finger was pressed inside to join the others and then all three of them thrusting together. The strokes on his cock matched the penetration of his body and he quickly became overwhelmed by it, his body ready and eager for the pleasure, his mind falling to pieces when he was denied again for the second time.

Over and over, Sherlock brought him to the brink, and John didn’t even have the realisation that this was something else now. Yes, it was the strokes on his cock, the fingers inside him and the pulsations of denied orgasm in his blood, but it was also the silk stuck to his back; the blindfold around his eyes; the feel of Sherlock’s body heat where he was between John’s legs and the sound of Sherlock’s breathing as he expertly worked John’s body. All of them working together harmoniously to drive him to the edge of his mind again and again, until he couldn’t see to a point beyond this moment. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed; the exquisite torture between his legs, _Sherlock_ between them; the memory of Sherlock’s mouth on his neck; the tongue in his arse, licking him open for the fingers inside him and it still wasn’t enough. He needed more. Needed it like the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins, until it became his whole world and-

A noise he’d never heard before came from him, a sobbing sound that morphed into a moan and then into silence, tears leaking from his eyes into the scarf and his hands relaxing on the pillow above him. The thrashing of his body stopped completely as something inside him unwound itself and his mind was pushed over the edge into free-fall, the link between his consciousness and his physical form a tenacious link as he sank further into his own body than he’d ever thought possible. He felt weightless where he lay, but had never felt so heavy, his mind threatening to float out of the top of his head as Sherlock’s hands continued moving on him, coaxing him to the brink again but not letting him cross over, and suddenly he knew that it didn’t matter, not in the way he thought it did. There was only now, this moment with Sherlock and the pleasure being given to him by his Dom.

The sensation of Sherlock’s hands leaving his body reached him as though he were wrapped in cotton-wool. He was aware of it happening but the peace inside his mind wasn’t disturbed by it, not even when the blindfold was gently removed from his face and fingers gently pried one eye open to check his pupil dilation. Soft, breathy kisses were laid on his cheeks, along his mouth, and then those hands were turning him onto his right side, the warmth of Sherlock’s body pressing into his back as John pulled his arms down to the mattress to support the position. A hand curled behind the knee of his left leg, coaxing it up to his chest as Sherlock moved his body closer, and then the hot steel rod of the detective’s erection was poking between his buttocks, notching on his hole and slowly pressing inwards.

“ _Sherl_ - _!_ Ohhh, _God!”_ But it didn’t stop, his body opening for Sherlock’s cock as surely as it’d opened for his fingers, but this was so much _better_ , so real and thick and it was Sherlock finally buried inside him, Jesus, how was he able to function without this?

Fingers curled under his head, tilting his face until he was looking up at where Sherlock was partially leant over him, the man’s cheeks flushed with desire and his breath panting over John’s mouth. _“John,”_ Sherlock whispered, and the word held everything he wanted to, more than that even, and he blearily tilted his chin up, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s in a way that he hoped conveyed just how- much this meant to him. The detective must have gotten the message because the slow withdrawal of his cock from John’s body made him whimper, the resultant thrust back in causing his body to clench around Sherlock’s length, and they both gasped into each other’s mouths as the sounds of sex began to fill the room.

It wasn’t hard or fast, not like he’d expected their first time to be. This was slow, sensual, a pace set to the natural rhythm of the unhurried and the patient. There was no 221B or Mrs Hudson. No London or United Kingdom. There was barely the room which surrounded them, the sheets gliding underneath them as they moved together, the slap of skin meeting skin the music in their ears. And God, that was it, there was the perfect angle, Sherlock’s cock brushing up against his prostate with each slow thrust, pressing into it and John closed his eyes to savour it, the sensation of Sherlock’s body inside him before he was lost again, the pace ramping up a notch as the need to find release slowly rose within them.

John knew he hadn’t been patient. He’d begged and pushed and pleaded for Sherlock to take him, to make this a reality and Sherlock had resisted, waiting for the moment to present itself, the perfect time to complete the act they both so desperately wanted. So it came as a surprise when long, violinist fingers curled around his erection and stroked him from base to tip, the touch matching the long press of Sherlock’s cock inside him and it was quickly becoming too much to handle. The pace was quick now but not rushed, just perfect and the thought quickly pushed him closer to release, his voice rising when the pleasure became a bright agony. His hands fisted in the sheets as his orgasm swept up through him, centring on his cock and balls, and he couldn’t stop moaning even as the wave suddenly crashed over him, his body contracting tightly on Sherlock’s cock and his come splattering over Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock’s fingers stayed on him through the convulsions, gently working him through the aftershocks as his heart tried to burst from his chest, and he realised that Sherlock hadn’t finished yet. The hardness inside him hadn’t diminished, if anything it seemed larger than before, and John knew that Sherlock was close. Releasing his grip on the sheets, he raised his left hand to Sherlock’s face and brought their lips together again, murmuring against them, “Your turn. That’s it, come on, love, I need to feel you inside me, oh God, _yes,_ keep going, fuck me, take me, I’m yours, _”_ and then Sherlock was groaning urgently against his mouth, his hips pressing close to John’s as his cock pulsed and twitched inside him and John could almost imagine the feel of Sherlock’s come as it jetted into him, claiming him, and he’d never felt so desired before in his life.

After such a powerful release, the endorphins took a while to fade. During that time, Sherlock’s cock softened enough that he slipped out of John’s body with a trickle of lube and come, but John didn’t so much as flinch, deciding that he rather liked it. As though moving in slow motion, John’s body was gently turned until it was facing Sherlock’s and he was gathered up in strong arms, warm, slightly dry lips pressing against his as their bodies pressed close from face to ankle. His own hands buried themselves in Sherlock’s locks, not to deepen the kiss but to keep the kiss going, thinking all the time, _‘thank you for giving me this, thank you for not doing what I wanted and doing what I needed, for all of it,’_ and felt Sherlock’s mouth tilt up in a smile against his mouth before strong hands pulled him back in and he lost himself in Sherlock’s arms.  

_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh, did I forget to mention that it’s not over? Huh, guess I did…


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: Hi everyone!
> 
> I know, I know, it’s been AGES! But I’m still here and part eleven is now complete for your reading pleasure! 
> 
> And I also have good news - I have a new job now, which means I should be able to dedicate a bit more time to writing for you lovely people rather than job hunting, so a big WooHoo for that! ^^
> 
> Oh, before I forget, I want to put it out there that I am NOT, in any shape or form, a BDSM practitioner. All of this is being written by doing some very thorough research on the Internet so, if I balls it up in any way, please let me know and I will amend it! Thanks guys!
> 
> Right, that’s enough from me (because you do know how I hate to keep you in suspense, right…? *wink* ) 
> 
> Enjoy! xxx

_‘_ _It’s Christmas Day tomorrow.’_ Staring at the calendar on the fridge door, John knew that the thought shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, but he was still surprised that the day had somehow managed to sneak up on him. The presents had already been bought for family and friends; the tree was up and the decorations Sherlock loathed were adorning their flat, and yet it still didn’t feel like it would be Christmas in two days. Then again, he mused, anything that had been distinctively not Sherlock hadn’t been on his radar very much since the night he had fantastic sex with the man and John couldn’t quite bring himself to be ashamed of it.

The night after Sherlock had taken his virginity (which was technically true because he’d never had anal sex before) his relationship with the detective had a whole new meaning. It wasn’t like they weren’t lovers already (and it certainly didn’t set a precedent that penetrative sex had to be involved for them to be classed as such), but things were definitely different now. There was a subtle undercurrent of tension within the flat that hadn't been there before, almost an air of expectation for the things to come, and even the interruption of four separate cases within a week hadn't cut through it.

The cases themselves had been above a seven, interesting enough to warrant Sherlock leaving the flat, but John had still caught glimpses of his lover looking at him over the body of a victim who’d died from lacerations to their throat, or felt a glance from under lowered lashes before they analysed a new footprint that had just been discovered. Having Sherlock looking at him wasn’t a new phenomenon; John often felt Sherlock’s eyes on him when he tried to suss out the cause of death on one of the victims, and it was more the way Sherlock was looking at him now that was different.

Almost like, every time John correctly guessed a clue or lead, he was going to be eaten alive.

Laughing a little to himself, John knew that, by the end of the fourth the case, they hadn’t so much as slept in the same bed together and he could very well understand Sherlock’s position; he saw it in the tension of Sherlock’s shoulders when they walked beside each other on the way back to Baker Street; the pursed lips and darkening eyes when a criminal forced them to retreat, to hide until the coast was clear with their bodies pressed close to each other behind some dustbins or down a darkened alley. Oh yes, those times had been especially difficult, feeling Sherlock’s breath on his face and Sherlock’s hands on either side of his head, the scent of the man filling his nostrils until John felt like he was drowning in him.   

With fingers that shook slightly, John put the pen back in its holder at the top of the calendar, a flush rising on his cheeks as he recalled the last time they’d been together. He wasn’t a shy man and enjoyed a tumble between the sheets more than he suspected most people did, but he should have known that being with Sherlock would blow everything else out of the water. Over a week ago now, Sherlock had ordered John to stretch himself open with his own fingers while Sherlock watched and John mentally noted that it hadn’t been the first time that they’d been intimate that morning. Actually, they’d had sex again just as they’d woken up, but it hadn’t stopped them from wanting another go once they’d both recovered.

John remembered that he’d been completely naked and on his front initially with his arse in the air, the first three fingers of his left hand buried inside him as he slowly stretched himself, trying to go easy on already tender muscles. The detective had been crouched at the edge of the bed so he could get a better look and John hadn’t needed to see the other man's face to know that he was enjoying the view immensely, with the position itself being chosen at the time because it meant John wouldn't able to reach his prostate with the accuracy he would've liked. The angle was all wrong, making it more than a little frustrating for him, and he couldn't curve his fingers the right way to give himself any further stimulation, but the detective hadn't been bashful in telling him exactly what he thought about it.

_"Yes, that's it, John. Push them a little deeper." The sound of lube and come squelching between John's fingers echoed in the room as he obeyed Sherlock's command, whimpering as his fingers just brushed the edge of his prostate, swollen and sensitive to the lightest stroke across it. "So beautiful," Sherlock said, stroking a hand up John's right thigh. "Next time I'm going to record this so you can watch yourself. The way your body has opened up for your fingers, your rim stretched tight and your hole still full of my come. Glorious..."_

After that, Sherlock hadn't wasted any time pulling John's fingers from his body and climbing on the bed to kneel between John’s thighs; all the while John had moaned at the emptiness inside of him, already aching for more, but the feeling had quickly been replaced with Sherlock's cock. The detective had been so geared up after watching John prepare himself that he didn’t even pause once he was balls-deep inside, barely taking the time to ensure his thrusts would be aiming for John’s prostate before relentlessly pounding into him. 

John felt his blush deepen as he recalled the feel of hands on his hips as Sherlock took him from behind, the overriding thought at the time being that Sherlock’s come was still inside him. The wet, sticky sounds of Sherlock’s cock sliding into him added a deeply perverse thrill to the whole thing, a symphony to play alongside John’s moans and Sherlock’s own deep baritone murmuring encouragement to him. The sex that morning had been on just the right side of rough, he remembered fondly, with him burying his face into the pillows to muffle his cries when the thrusts became harder, deeper, and Sherlock was growling with each push as his hips snapped into John’s buttocks.  

That particular morning they'd fucked; making love hadn't been the last thing on John's mind but it certainly hadn’t been the first either. It was straight-forward, animalistic fucking with Sherlock's hands holding his body in position while John gripped the sheets for dear life, gasping and cursing as Sherlock used him for their combined pleasure. It hadn't been the only position they'd tried either; Sherlock eventually pushed John down so he was on his back with his knees to his chest, John's hands holding onto his own legs to keep them in place as Sherlock loomed above him. John hadn't even had the presence of mind to touch himself; in the end Sherlock made him come without a single tug to his cock and it had been so hard that he'd painted his own mouth and chin with it. It turned out that that was exactly what Sherlock had been hoping for, taking John's sticky face in one hand and making him meet Sherlock's eyes so he could see the moment when the detective reached his own release, adding to the mess John could already feel leaking out of him.

Smiling to himself now, John thought Sherlock in climax was most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and the clean-up afterwards had definitely been worth it.

Thinking back to Sherlock's words, specifically the mention of a recording, John didn't have any doubts that a video camera would make an appearance at some point; Sherlock had never been a man to give idle threats and John actually felt quite excited by the possibility of it. Although it wasn’t because he wanted to watch himself getting fucked, as some people might think, but so he could do quite the opposite. Sherlock was a very considerate lover, but it was precisely because of that reason that John's eyes were usually clenched shut to try and hold out for as long as humanely possible and he desperately wanted to see that body in the throes of sex, the sweat glistening on bare skin and the tight circle of those hips before John wrapped his thighs around them. He almost wished there was a mirror on Sherlock's bedroom ceiling just so he could watch the thrust and drive of that perfect arse, so he could trace the line the soles of his feet made as they drew themselves up the lithe muscles in Sherlock’s back…

John felt the beginnings of another erection at the front of his pyjama bottoms, the fabric filling out and becoming taut as the flesh beneath it responded to the memory, and he silently cursed himself for the umpteenth time. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, he tried to think about the most boring thing in the world whilst trying to will away his determined libido, knowing he wasn’t going to be getting anywhere with it this morning when he glanced into the sitting room and noted the location of the flat’s other occupant. Unfortunately the past week had been one of the busiest ever, not including the last-minute Christmas shopping and that fact that criminals weren't taking any holidays, and all John wanted to do was curl up on the sofa with a sleepy consulting detective after a sex marathon. But no, Lestrade had texted Sherlock four times this morning (and finally got hold of John when Sherlock didn't respond to his messages), asking them to come into NSY so he could take their statements before midday at the latest. In Lestrade's defence all the cases had been solved, but they needed to be 'on file' before the festive season began in earnest.

John glared down at his bottoms and the bobbing flesh underneath them, his erection refusing to go away no matter how much he tried to think of the most disgusting things known to man. Even Mycroft twirling his umbrella in a bright pink mankini wasn’t working and John’s hand was of the opinion that it would be so much easier if he could just rub one out. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thought about sneaking in a furtive wank to release some of the tension, but he also knew that he’d only get away with it if Sherlock gave him explicit permission to do so and there wasn't any sign of that happening anytime soon. Not when the man himself was in the sitting room making notes on his sheet music, his blue dressing gown catching the early morning light from the windows and casting Sherlock's shadow in a faint blue glow.

John looked his fill of Sherlock's profile as the detective made small amendments to the music he was creating, feeling relieved that Sherlock was actually concentrating on playing music rather than the shrieking the violin often did between cases. Now the violin and bow were clasped in Sherlock's left hand, his right one holding the pen, and John had a brief memory of how those fingers felt inside him the first time, the way they'd stretched him open and made him pliant for the urgent thrust of Sherlock's cock.

He shoved the thought away as he went to the fridge for the milk, barely stopping himself from slamming the jug on the table before the noise caught Sherlock's attention and taking a deep breath to calm himself down. He could admit that his frustration had more than one source, having had quite a bit of time to think about it, and the only thing more distracting then the lack of sex was that there hadn’t been any more pain-play between them. It’d been a whole day since Sherlock’s attention had been on the Work, with ample opportunity for a spanking or two, but there hadn't been a whisper of anything happening in that regard. As far as John was concerned the nipple clamps had been a huge success, and he'd been spending the last twenty-four hours trying to anticipate what else Sherlock might introduce to their relationship … with nothing to show for it.

No more spankings.

No more new toys.

In fact, as the hours of the week passed between one case and the next, John was seriously beginning to wish for the cramp of muscles as he sat in chairs and the soreness of fabric against his chest. He wanted it to hurt more, to last longer each time so he could bask in it for hours, if not days, at a time. Jesus, he wanted to be able to look at his arse in the mirror the next morning and know that Sherlock had been the one to cause its deep flush of red in contrast to the skin of his back and thighs, a physical testament to the desire they had for each other and a reminder that Sherlock still thought of him in that way-.

Growling under his breath, John worked a hand into his pyjama bottoms and pinched at the base of his erection, willing it to go down. _'Not allowed,'_ he reminded himself.

The sound of Sherlock's violin case opening shook John from his thoughts and he turned around to watch as Sherlock put the violin away, always careful with the instrument from beginning to end. John pushed away the ache in his stomach at the sight and turned around to finish the tea, pouring the water from the kettle into the cups he'd gotten out for them and adding the sugar to Sherlock's taste. He stirred the tea idly, watching as the granules dissolved until he couldn't feel them anymore beneath the spoon; he was so lost in thoughts that he didn't hear Sherlock come up behind him, almost spilling the tea when Sherlock made him jump. Looking over his shoulder, John half glared at the man behind him and then shook his head in amusement when Sherlock just smirked at him. "Still want that bell?" John asked, fishing out the teabags and stirring the milk into the cups until it was just the right colour for them both.

"For you perhaps," Sherlock replied, reaching around John to grab his cup and taking a sip, his eyes skipping over John's clothing. "Wear your black and white jumper today. The striped one."

John looked down at himself and reasoned that he hadn't even gotten dressed yet; it was still early-ish on a Saturday morning and they didn't need to meet with Lestrade until midday, but still… He quirked one eyebrow at Sherlock's words, smiling behind his own cup as he brought it to his lips. "You like that one then?"

Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer, his eyes sweeping John's body again before he nodded once, an affirmation. "Yes." He didn't elaborate on it and John watched as Sherlock walked back to the sitting room and perched on the edge of the sofa, flicking through the morning newspaper.

Bemused, John took a sip of his tea and decided he needed to get dressed anyway, going upstairs to his room and fishing out the requested garment. Taking into account the washing that still needed doing, he paired the jumper with some light blue jeans that were a little frayed on the ends, a comfortable pair because God knew how long Lestrade would keep them at the Yard before he was happy with their statements. John could only hope that Sherlock would be on his best behaviour today, purely because it meant they would get out a damn-sight faster and could start their own Christmas celebrations.

Picking up his tea, he meandered his way back downstairs and sat in his own chair with a sigh, his eyes straying to the windows to see what the weather was doing. John couldn’t help smiling a bit when he saw it hadn’t stopped snowing, although it wasn’t as heavy as some of the previous storms, and the child in him hoped the weather would stay long enough for London to have a white Christmas. Through his contemplation, the sound of a newspaper page being turned filled the room every so often, followed by the soft sounds of their breathing and the occasional sip of tea, and it allowed him to relax in his chair a little more, his shoulders sloping into a more natural position, for these were the sounds of home. Almost as much as the usual banging and violin music and smoke that sometimes filled the kitchen, or Sherlock covered head to toe in corn-flour and some other jelly-like substance that he’d sworn wasn’t harmful in any way. Smirking, John remembered that he still had a picture of that on his phone, only to be used as passive blackmail in cases of extreme sulkiness on Sherlock’s part.

The sound of the newspaper being tossed across the coffee table brought his attention back to Sherlock, who’d thrown the paper away when there (obviously) wasn’t anything interesting in it, and was now lying across the sofa length-ways, one hand tucked behind his head and the other resting on his stomach. John noticed that the t-shirt Sherlock was wearing had ridden up slightly in the new position, meaning Sherlock’s hand was now touching bare skin, and John felt himself swallow around a lump in his throat. He hadn’t seen Sherlock naked for the longest time since their relationship started, not since the first case this week in fact, so the sight of pale flesh bathed in natural light, those long fingers idly scratching the skin beneath them, was enough to make the dull ache he was feeling flare into actual pain.

God, he wanted Sherlock. He wanted to replace Sherlock’s hand with his own, to stroke the skin there and feel the muscles ripple beneath his fingers. His hands itched to push Sherlock’s t-shirt up the rest of the way so he could lick at Sherlock’s nipples, swirl his tongue around them until they stiffened into little peaks that he could suckle on, the fingers of one hand stimulating the other one and then swapping around until Sherlock’s chest was moist with his saliva. Perhaps he’d reach a hand down to Sherlock’s own pyjama bottoms and curl his fingers around the hardness there through the cloth, teasing the detective with the heat of his hand and the pressure but with no actual skin contact. Sherlock would squirm so beautifully, breath hitching as John would playfully nip at one bud and roll Sherlock’s testicles around until he-

John shut his eyes and curled his hands around his cup, trying in vain to banish the images as he pressed his head against the back of the chair. He really wasn’t doing himself any favours, he knew that, but it still wasn’t helping. His erection was a persistent throb in his jeans, which were a far less forgiving fabric than his pyjama bottoms, but it also meant that, when his hips twitched, they provided an almost painful friction. _‘Fucking Christ… I can’t do this anymore.’_

No sooner had he thought the words before he pushed himself into action, opening his eyes and finishing his tea in a few scant swallows. He looked over to Sherlock again, seeing that the other man had shut his eyes now, apparently at ease with the current arrangement and perhaps going over the last few cases in his head. Well, that simply would not do…

John stood up and walked into the kitchen, snagging Sherlock’s empty cup on the way and placing them both in the sink to be washed up later. Once there, he paused for a moment, flexing his fingers on the edge of the kitchen surfaces and concentrating on his breathing. He was so excited he thought he might start hyperventilating, but it was also tinged with concern. What if Sherlock didn’t respond or simply wasn’t in the mood? Five days… Five days only of the Work and he was like this. Needy and desperate, already missing Sherlock’s hands on him, his mouth, his words. Not the words of Cases but the words of a Dom. His Dom, commanding him, praising him, whispering into his ears of how good a sub he was and how much he deserved what Sherlock was going to give to him…

He thought back to the time when Sherlock blindfolded him, denying him of orgasm again and again, and how that had caused him to enter what seemed to be ‘subspace’ (or at least what he thought it was because it seemed not even submissives could agree on a single experience, it varied so much). The overwhelming peace he’d felt under Sherlock’s hands, knowing he was being looked after, cared for in such a vulnerable state, was a high he hadn’t found anywhere else, not even on the frontlines, and he already knew that he missed it. That lack of control, of giving up, giving in to another person and having all their attention focussed on him, on what was happening and how to make it last…  No, John quickly amended with a shake of his head. Not just any person, because only one would do, and he was currently obsessed with cases! 

Warm hands suddenly curled around his waist and John tensed automatically when a firm body pressed against his back, a hot mouth laying featherlike kisses at the base of his neck. Gasping, he didn’t know when he’d shut his eyes or when Sherlock had even moved, but it only heightened the sensations as he leaned back into Sherlock’s embrace, keeping his hands on the counter and giving free reign to whatever Sherlock wanted to do. Sherlock took the permission as he was meant to, his right hand moved up John’s torso and across the fabric of his jumper, settling over his heart as the other hand moved down to the front of John’s jeans and cupped his erection through them.

“God, Sherlock,” John whispered, his hips rolling forward into the palm of Sherlock’s hand as the detective squeezed John’s length and then reached lower to fondle his balls, already pulled tight to his groin with his arousal.

The lips at his neck moved again, the moist heat of Sherlock’s tongue lapping at one ear-lobe and tracing the curl of that same ear. John could hear Sherlock’s own breathing as the touches continued; a slow puff of warm air with the space between each breath narrowing as Sherlock’s body responded to John’s need. “Do you know what you smell like?” Sherlock asked him, moving the hand over John’s heart until it reached his right nipple, gently circling it with the tip of one finger. “You smell like the gun oil you use to clean your Browning and the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.” John’s ear was soon left alone, only for that mouth to press to the skin where his ear met his neck and John shuddered as the touch sent violent shivers through him. Sherlock never paused, almost whispering the words between each kiss and caress. “Like desire. Arousal. Need. Even through the soap of your shower. A musky smell; man, soldier and healer all compressed into one.” The hands moved again, making John almost whimper in disappointment before he was turned so his back was pressed against the counter and Sherlock was looking down at him, his eyes sharp and full of heat. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice this?”

John closed his eyes again, holding his breath when Sherlock’s hands moved back to their previous positions, except this time on his front, and releasing a moan when one of those hands pressed against his cock, stroking him from root to tip. “I knew you’d probably notice,” John gasped, his hips following the motion of Sherlock’s fingers, “but I didn’t want to… The Work, it’s-”

“Finished,” Sherlock replied, the hand not at John’s crotch sliding up his chest to stop at his collar bones, the fingers splayed against them over the jumper. “It’s finished, John.”

“Finished,” John echoed, his mouth dropping open when the hand at his groin deftly flicked open the top of his jeans and slid the zip down, just enough for those fingers (was he really thinking how dexterous those fingers were a moment ago because damn!) to slip his boxers down over his cock and give Sherlock entrance to him. His whole body seemed to thrum in time to the pulse between his legs, Sherlock’s fingers working the moisture at the tip of John’s erection and then closing his hand around it, stroking the head lightly using the foreskin there.

“Do you have any idea what it’s been like the last five days?” Sherlock asked, his eyes watching John’s expressions as the feeling of finally having Sherlock’s hands on his body made his face and neck flush with pleasure. “To see you standing there, unable to feel the touch of your skin against my own? Or to hear your voice begging me for more?” 

“I have an idea, yeah,” John replied breathlessly, trying to keep still when the light touches to his erection became firmer, more rhythmic, his chest seizing when one stroke felt particularly good.

Sherlock kept watching him, knowing how to move his fingers in just the right way to make John squirm. "When you found the ring under the wardrobe, just by the glint it made in the sunlight, did you also have an idea of how much I wanted to take you over the victim's dressing table?" he asked, one finger curling against the skin of John's scrotum and flicking against one ball. "In front of Lestrade. Donovan... Even that idiot Anderson." Another flick to his balls and John saw Sherlock's eyes darken as he watched John wince at the dual sensations of pain and pleasure. "Do you think they'd get off on it, seeing you so uninhibited?"

John groaned at the words and at the sharp flick of Sherlock's nail against a very sensitive area, pressing back against the kitchen counter as his mind brought to life the fantasy Sherlock had created. He remembered the dressing table well; a sturdy thing, cream coloured, with an oval vanity mirror in the centre and two sets of drawers on either side. A proper little girl's table, except this one had been made for an adult woman, and the very notion of being taken over it while Lestrade and his team watched... His blood thrilled with the exhilaration of it all, the fantasy of being at Sherlock's mercy while the police looked on, as helpless to Sherlock's power as John himself...

Abruptly, Sherlock's hands lifted from John's body to cup his face in their palms, John's cock now pressing against Sherlock's pyjama bottoms and, through them, the answering hardness of Sherlock's erection. "They may not," Sherlock said, bringing their lips together in a faint kiss and pushing a thigh between John's legs. "But you do, don't you."

 _'Do what?'_ John couldn't focus on the words, his hands white-knuckled on the counter as he tried to kiss Sherlock again, already thinking ahead to the moist lick of Sherlock's tongue in his mouth and feel of a lip nipped between teeth. Sherlock had the prettiest mouth; all Cupid’s bow and sharp words and John felt like he could waste an entire morning exploring it without the morning being wasted at all.

Sherlock slid a hand to the back of John’s head, stroking his fingers through the strands of his hair in a way that made John’s eyes flutter. “You want to see how they react to it,” he said, his tone coloured by the realisation. “You like the idea of it happening to you.”

In that instant, John already knew what Sherlock was talking about; how could he not, already remembering the way he’d been in the surgery, hard and desperately hoping someone would(n’t) see his erection that fateful Wednesday, but he still wanted to hear Sherlock say it. “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock smirked while the fingers in John’s hair tightened at the roots, arching John’s head back so Sherlock could lick from his collar bones to his jaw in a wet slide. “How about a demonstration?” Sherlock said instead, pulling back so John could see the heat deepen in the detective’s eyes.

 _‘Demonstration?’_ As was normally the case, Sherlock didn’t give him any time to think about it, his hands already reaching down to John’s waistline to tuck his erection back into his boxers, doing up the fastenings and straightening his jumper afterwards so it wasn’t bunched up around his hips.

“Follow me,” Sherlock said in a low burr, walking back into the living room as John trailed behind him. John watched through blurred eyes as Sherlock draped himself in his chair and, without saying a thing, motioned to the space in front of him, giving John a pointed look until the implications of the gesture washed over him. Hell, the look Sherlock was giving him was enough to turn his knees to jelly and John shut his eyes for a brief second as he realised what Sherlock wanted him to do.

He swallowed the sudden flood of saliva in his mouth as he knelt at Sherlock’s feet, placing his hands on the other man’s knees to steady himself once his knees touched the floor. Sherlock made no move to touch him, laid back in his chair like some sort of regal entity, and John knew what happened next would be up to him. He could go straight for the prize, and Sherlock’s body language wasn’t attempting to divert that thought as his legs were spread open to allow John to kneel between them, but John remembered the way Sherlock had been laying on the sofa and he knew what he wanted to do next.

Looking up the length of Sherlock’s body, he maintained eye contact as his hands reached for the bottom of Sherlock’s t-shirt, pushing the fabric up until it was bunched up around his armpits and exposing that gorgeous chest. Sherlock shifted his body slightly to allow the fabric to move before settling back again, watching John with curious eyes as John ran his hands over Sherlock’s pectoral muscles, tracing the lines they made down to his abs. Despite Sherlock’s little gain in weight, he still managed to keep a trim figure and the body beneath John’s fingers was truly something to be envied. With that thought in mind, John stuck his left index finger into his mouth, wetting it generously and then placing the pad of that same finger near Sherlock’s right nipple, drawing a circle around the nub which was beginning to harden. Pleased with the physical reaction, and the deepening hue of Sherlock’s eyes, John repeated it near Sherlock’s left nipple until both had stiffened into little peaks and then leaned over Sherlock’s torso, boldly lapping at the right one with his tongue.

A hiss of breath sounded above him as Sherlock reacted to the lick, his hips arching under John’s weight to press his hardness into John’s stomach. Intrigued, John lapped at it again and then drew the tip of his tongue around the centre, and Sherlock’s body surged beneath him as his hands gripped the arm rests of his chair. _‘Very sensitive,’_ John thought, unable to take his eyes away from Sherlock’s face as he gently pursed his lips around the nipple and began to suck.

A rough moan echoed in Sherlock’s chest as the detective arched his back, pushing himself bodily towards John’s mouth to increase the friction. John rode the action easily, having experienced it numerous times with previous lovers, but he didn’t stop. He gradually began to suck harder and, when he looked up and saw Sherlock had taken his own lip between his teeth, looking almost pained at John’s attention, he flicked the tip of his tongue against the nub in an experimental move to see how Sherlock would react.

“Oh God!” The shout almost startled John enough to stop him in his tracks, but Sherlock’s right hand was now clasped around the back of his head and keeping his mouth exactly where Sherlock wanted it, their eyes meeting when Sherlock looked down at him, dishevelled and a blush staining his cheeks. “Do that again,” Sherlock ordered him, his mouth dropping open when John followed the direction and a groan vibrating the skin beneath John’s lips.

A hot rush of _something_ flooded John’s system at the noises Sherlock was making, reluctantly slipping Sherlock’s nipple free so he could switch to the other one. The left one was just as sensitive, if not more so because of the attention to the right one, but it didn’t stop him from leaping straight into it, lapping at the hardness of it and swirling his tongue around before enclosing the flesh between his lips. Unbidden, his left hand automatically started playing with Sherlock’s right nipple, the pads of his fingers stroking over it and then pinching delicately while he began to flick the one in his mouth with the tip of his tongue.

Beneath his stomach, Sherlock’s hips hadn’t stopped moving since John first licked at his chest but now the movement was more desperate, more encouraging. Sherlock’s erection felt like a steel rod as it was pressed rhythmically up into John’s body and John remembered the way those hips had flexed between his thighs, that cock invading him again and again until he couldn’t think of anything else. His own body seemed to throb in time to the rhythm of Sherlock’s thrusts and he desperately wanted to take himself in hand so he could match Sherlock’s pace, his jeans almost painfully tight in his crouched position, but he didn’t dare make the attempt. God, the fact that the normally brash detective was nearly purring under him would be enough to fuel John’s wanking fantasies for months and yet it all seemed to disappear when he was faced with the option of his pleasure or Sherlock’s. Hands down, Sherlock would come first every time (no pun intended) and John decided, if he so desperately wanted that wank, he would do better to substitute it with something, or indeed someone, else. 

Without taking his mouth away from Sherlock’s chest, he moved his left hand up from its grounding position on Sherlock’s right knee until he reached the inside of Sherlock’s thighs, softly stroking the skin there and feeling the muscle tighten beneath his fingers as Sherlock used his entire lower body to grind his cock against John’s stomach. Unbidden, Sherlock spread his thighs wider, subconsciously creating a bigger target and one that John was only too happy to hit. Slowly, as though on a hair-trigger, his hand reached the crease between thigh and groin and delicately traced the shape Sherlock’s erection made under his bottoms, the heat and hardness of it hitting him square in the stomach when Sherlock gasped above him.

Popping Sherlock’s nipple free from his lips, John looked up again and saw the path the blush had made on Sherlock’s body, starting at his cheeks and ending on his chest; a deep flush of arousal and exertion as Sherlock continued to writhe under him. “Gorgeous,” John murmured, finding the tip of Sherlock’s cock between his index finger and thumb and gently squeezing the head.

Sherlock’s eyes had been closed with the first brush of John’s fingers, but now they were open, the pupils expanded until John almost couldn’t see Sherlock’s natural eye colour and completely focussed on him. “Enough foreplay,” Sherlock growled and the hand in John’s hair gently pushed down for a moment, just enough for him to get the message. “Take me out.”

John didn’t need any encouragement, the excitement of touching that bare cock flooding through him, but he didn’t rush it, wanting to savour the moment because this was the first time he’d seen Sherlock like this in a week. The skin under the waistband of Sherlock’s bottoms was warm beneath John’s fingers and still faintly damp from Sherlock’s shower earlier that morning, the faint traces of wetness making John want to roll Sherlock over so he could lick the man clean, but he knew there were far better places to put his tongue than Sherlock’s hips.

He started to pull Sherlock’s bottoms down, motioning for Sherlock to raise his lower half so he could finish the job properly before reaching down and pulling Sherlock’s feet free so he could still spread his legs. John’s eyes were immediately drawn to Sherlock’s erection, noting the girth of it and the way it flexed against Sherlock’s stomach, the flushed head pointing towards Sherlock’s chin. Gulping reflexively, he looked up at Sherlock for guidance, unsure of how quickly the other man wanted him to do this, but Sherlock wasn’t giving him anything, watching with half-lidded eyes.

 _‘Fuck it,’_  John thought eventually, gently taking Sherlock’s cock at the base and tilting it towards him so he could lick a broad swipe up the large vein, riding the thrust of Sherlock’s hips so he could swirl his tongue around the head. He looked up when he heard a breathy moan from above him, watching through wide eyes as Sherlock fully relaxed in his chair with his hands on the arms rests and his head tilted back so he was almost slouching in the leather. John was almost transfixed by it, the look of respite on Sherlock’s face, and he figured that, after almost a full week of cases, Sherlock definitely deserved this.

Being a doctor, he knew very well what happened to the human body when arousal culminated in orgasm, and he knew of no better way to relieve some of that tension than this. It was an added bonus that he’d only ever done this for Sherlock once before, although the first time had been cut short by his own actions, so it was almost like he was relearning the act all over again. Not that he was complaining. If anything, it made it so much sweeter than before, like he had the opportunity to take his time now, to learn what it was that Sherlock enjoyed most. Like when he flicked his tongue just so, or pursed his lips around the frenulum and suckled just under the glands, resulting in a jerk and a drop of pre-come that he happily lapped from Sherlock’s slit. He kept his hands busy too, sliding the unoccupied hand to Sherlock’s lightly furred balls and stroking across them, testing their sensitivity and the way they jumped beneath his fingers.

It was the persistent throbbing in his own jeans that gave John the incentive to move on, opening his mouth and sliding his lips over the head whilst making sure his teeth were out of the way. Sherlock’s desperate moan told John that the action was more than welcome on his part and it made him bolder, inching his way down the shaft and meeting his mouth halfway with the fist he now had curled around the last of it. Sherlock was well endowed, there was no doubt about it, and it would be a long time before John felt he would be comfortable in taking more than half down his throat.

But it didn’t hurt to have a goal in mind, he thought, slowly building into a rhythm and working Sherlock’s cock with a mixture of hot, wet suction and a firm grip.

The soft sounds of his sucking, combined with Sherlock’s deep vocalisations, was quickly becoming the hottest thing he’d heard in years, even better than the high, shrill cries he’d somehow managed to wring out of previous girlfriends when he’d licked them out. Each burst of salt on his tongue, rather than being a bitter consequence, was an erotic reminder of how much Sherlock was enjoying it, and John sent a mental thank you to some of the more talented partner’s he’d had in the past, trying to mimic certain actions to see how well they were received and those which just didn’t work. And, when his jaw started to lock, it was a simple matter to switch his attention to Sherlock’s balls, gently mouthing at them through the sac and sucking one into his mouth whilst trying to co-ordinate pumping Sherlock’s cock at the same time. _‘Practise, John. You need more practise.’_ At sucking cock. And getting good at it. _‘Fuck yes…’_

In what seemed too short a time, Sherlock’s breathing became more laboured, his gasps sharper, and his hands had moved from the arm rests and buried themselves in John’s hair, guiding the depth and angle of John’s mouth on him until it was exactly as he wanted it. John still kept a hand on the lower half of Sherlock’s cock, not wanting to gag on it and ruin the whole experience, and Sherlock didn’t seem to have a problem with it if his almost frantic, “John! John, fuck, I’m close,” were any indications. The very words, ‘I’m close,’ had John breathing hard through his nostrils as his own body ached in sympathy, his sucking taking on a renewed vigour to push Sherlock closer over the edge because, God, he wanted Sherlock to come in his mouth. _‘Fucking do it,’_ he thought, feeling Sherlock’s fingers clench in his hair. _‘Do it, fuck my mouth.’_

With a desperate groan Sherlock suddenly pushed John off him, taking his cock in his own hands and pinching at the base to stop himself from climaxing. John whimpered with a grimace when he saw the jolts of denied orgasm shake Sherlock’s body, feeling just as denied of his prize until the detective opened his eyes again and looked down at where John was still knelt between his thighs. “Open your mouth,” Sherlock growled, pushing himself up to the edge of his seat and then standing in front of John, his legs on either side of John’s knees. John obeyed without a second thought, watching Sherlock adjust his stance so his cock was aiming directly at John’s mouth. “Now stick out your tongue,” Sherlock said and, again, John followed the instruction, struck by an intense wave of déjà vu when he remembered saying something similar at the surgery; _‘Now stick out your tongue and say ‘ahhhh’.’_

In front of his face, Sherlock began to pump his cock again and John kept his eyes on the other man’s fingers, trying to memorise the action so he could repeat it later because he wanted to be good at it and he wanted to know what Sherlock liked. Sherlock didn’t waste any time once he’d started and John could see his stomach muscles clenching as Sherlock came close to the edge again, his cock leaking pre-come until the shaft was glistening with a mixture of that and John’s saliva. And, when one stroke was timed just right, the head would brush against his tongue, making both of them moan in unison.

“Look at me,” Sherlock said finally, his fingers working at the glands in a way that meant he was almost there. “I want to see your eyes when you swallow me.”

John would have nodded his agreement to it, would have even said yes, but the English language fled his brain when he looked up at Sherlock’s face, seeing the red flush on his cheeks and the way his jaw had tensed and just how fucking beautiful Sherlock looked. Just in time for Sherlock to give one short shout of ecstasy and then his cock was jerking, throbbing, and John felt his mouth start to fill with Sherlock’s come.

He obediently kept his eyes on Sherlock’s face as the first shot of come hit his tongue and dripped down his chin, unable to stop his own moans as Sherlock continued to milk himself into John’s mouth. After the first shot, Sherlock pushed forward until his cock was resting on John’s tongue and John closed his lips around the head, providing a small amount of suction as he swallowed the hot liquid, the taste sharper than that of Sherlock’s pre-come, but no less arousing. Christ, he was about ready to come himself with no hands at all and, by the look in Sherlock’s eyes, he knew it too.

Too soon for his liking, Sherlock’s climax passed, leaving behind a bone-deep contentment that showed when the detective slumped his shoulders and gave a relaxed sigh, languidly stroking his cock a few more times to drag out the pleasure before pulling himself free from John’s mouth. John let him go, swallowing Sherlock’s release and chasing the last of it in the recesses of his mouth. Sherlock’s hand, the one that had been stroking his cock, came to his chin and dragged the tips of his fingers through the come there, holding them up to John’s lips. “You missed a bit,” Sherlock murmured and John groaned at the words, taking Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth and licking them clean.

Once his face was clean, Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips to John’s in a passionate kiss, pushing his tongue into John’s mouth so he could taste himself there. John eagerly responded to it, sucking on Sherlock’s tongue the way he’d sucked on Sherlock’s cock and angling his head so he could press their faces closer together. Even through the kiss they were sharing, John knew better than to ask whether or not it was his turn now; Sherlock would be able to feel it in the shaking of his body anyway, though the urgency of the kiss and moans John wasn’t able to keep silent, and he knew it wasn’t his place to ask. He trusted that Sherlock would take care of him, albeit in a manner of his choosing, but John was also aware that they were quickly running out of time and Sherlock seemed to have the same thought, gentling the kiss until their lips were just brushing against each other.   

“Such a good little sub I’ve got,” Sherlock whispered, cupping John’s face in his hands and pressing gentle kisses to John’s closed eyelids. “So eager to please, to obey. Ready to do anything I ask of him.”

John felt a smile curl his lips with Sherlock’s praise of him, his mind basking in it and ready to give itself over to Sherlock’s power, to give his whole body to Sherlock in an act of complete submission. Despite his flaming arousal, the urge to come was tempered with Sherlock’s closeness and affection, and John already knew which choice he would make if he couldn’t have both. Sherlock came first, in every possible way.

“We have to get ready to leave soon,” Sherlock said, pulling back so John could meet his eyes, the both of them smiling at each other. “But I think we have time for something extra beforehand.”

“Please,” John whispered, resting his hands on Sherlock’s bare hips and pushing his face into Sherlock’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex and pure maleness. “Please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock chuckled, kissing John on the forehead and then leaning back, helping them both to stand. “Since you ask so nicely,” he replied, “go to the sofa and undo your jeans. I want you bent over the cushions with your boxers round your thighs while I get a little something from our bedroom.”

“What is it?” John asked, already undoing his jeans and muffling a groan when the pressure was released on his cock as he lowered the zip.

Sherlock smirked. “It’s a surprise.” His eyes flicked down to John crotch, taking in the state of his erection. “Don’t touch yourself.”

John just stopped himself from scoffing at the reminder, watching as Sherlock walked to their bedroom, _‘he said ours,’_ without his bottoms on, and losing himself in the memory of taking them off of Sherlock in the first place, before doing as he was told. Crouched over the cushions of the sofa, arse bare to world, John tried to think of a time when this would have been humiliating rather than arousing and found that, while he remembered the time from before, he also realised that it wasn’t important now. It was still an intriguing position to be in, if he was honest with himself, but it was also okay because Sherlock knew what he needed and John knew he needed this.

He didn’t turn to look when Sherlock came back from the bedroom despite his curiosity, keeping his face buried in his arms while listening to Sherlock’s movements as the other man kneeled behind him and placed something on the floor next to them. The flick of a cap barely made John flinch anymore, his body tensing only margining when a lube-slicked finger circled his hole and pushed inside, thrusting a few times before pulling out and massaging the rim. Unlike the previous times when Sherlock had done this, this was all about the preparation, not the pleasure, but, lust-addled as he was, John still couldn’t stop vocalising the desire it was making him feel. Having Sherlock’s hands on his body was a treat in itself and, when Sherlock slipped in a second finger, his hips bucked back to take them deeper.

Soft lips pressed at the base of his spine as the fingers stretched him, Sherlock’s other hand reaching between John’s thighs and squeezing the base of his erection to stop him from reaching orgasm when those fingers brushed his prostate. “So eager,” Sherlock said breathlessly, curling his fingers to make John writhe with the pressure of them. “You have no idea what I’ve got in store for you, but I know you’re going to love it. You’re so ready for this.”

The fingers inside him withdrew and John bit into the sleeve of his jumper to halt any protest on his part until he heard the click of the lube bottle again, a soft squelch of it being moved around, and then something very _not_ Sherlock’s fingers was against his arse and slowly pressing inside. He muffled a shout into his sleeve when the smooth, round surface was pushed into him, larger than Sherlock’s fingers and flared at the tip before easing off and curving into a much smaller stretch, the base no larger than Sherlock’s index finger. The sensation of a flat surface between his cheeks had John’s eyes shooting open with the stark realisation of what Sherlock had put inside him, having seen his fair share of butt-plugs when a girlfriend was feeling adventurous, but he’d never thought that one would be used on him before and now one was _in him_.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed; his voice bright with approval as John grew accustomed to the coldness of the lube and the foreign sensation of having an inanimate object up his arse. “Perfect,” Sherlock murmured, leaning over and kissing the back of John’s neck, his fingers circling the rim where John was still open for the toy. “Just perfect.”

John couldn’t think of anything to say, unable to give Sherlock more than a small whimper and flexing his glutes as he tested the give of the toy, quickly coming to the conclusion that the only way it was coming out was if Sherlock removed it himself.   

“Now for the best part,” Sherlock said, a click of a button being John’s only warning before the toy began to _vibrate_ inside him.  

“Argh fuck!” John’s hips surged forward when the toy didn’t stop, his cock jerking at the new stimulation as his rim clenched around the plug, the _vibrating plug_ that Sherlock must have planned in advance because, fucking _Christ,_ it was intense.

“I know you know it’s a vibrating anal plug, but there’s something I feel you should know about this one,” Sherlock said conversationally, as though John’s world wasn’t being turned on its head. “Firstly, the power is controlled by a separate remote that has a range of thirty metres.” John didn’t need to see Sherlock’s face to know the other man was smirking. “And secondly, it has ten different functions, all of varying speeds and patterns. The one you’re experiencing now is the first setting and you can barely hear that it’s turned on. Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Fucking fantastic,” John managed before he cried out as the vibrations intensified, Sherlock having apparently activated the second setting.

“And also fascinating,” Sherlock replied, coming around John’s body so John could see his face. “You’re reactions to it, John, are simply captivating.” He grinned and the look on his face was one John only saw when Sherlock came across a very interesting experiment. “And this is only the second setting!”

 _'Eight more to go,’_ John finished unhelpfully in his own mind, groaning when, at last, the vibrations stopped and he felt like he could breathe again. “You’re killing me,” he groused out, fixing his eyes on Sherlock’s face. “I’m actually going to die, aren’t I.”

 "I should hope not. The fun’s only just started,” Sherlock replied, smirking when John just stared at him, his confusion evident.

 _'What the fuck does that mean?’_ John wasn’t able to speak, barely registering when Sherlock went to his hips again and began to pull his underwear and trousers back up, pulling John’s body into an upright position so he could tuck John’s erection away, and it was only then that John realised the toy was still inside him. “Sherlock!” He tried to turn to see what his partner was doing but, _oh,_ that was interesting… The way the toy shifted inside him, an unrelenting pressure, and, with his unflagging arousal, the shift had been nothing but pleasurable. “Fucking…”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, pressing a hard kiss to John’s mouth. “Just like this, John. You know what I want you to do.”

It took John barely two seconds to think about it and, when he did, the hot flush of shame and desire he felt made his body shake in a violent tremor. “You want me too… go to the Yard. Like this...” Sherlock’s eyes bored into his own, the look one of intense approval whilst also searching for something within John’s face, and he realised that Sherlock was looking for his own acceptance. He didn’t want John to enter into something he wasn’t ready for and John couldn’t stop himself from smiling when he knew what his answer would be. “What the hell are we waiting for?”

_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 2: If you're interested, the butt plug Sherlock has so kindly purchased for John's anal pleasure can be found at Lovehoney and it's called a 'Marc Dorcel Secret Genius Vibe Remote Control Butt Plug'. (Is it weird that I’m loving the name right now?)
> 
> Research is so much fun, teehee! ^^


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, everyone! I know I’m almost a month late for Christmas, etc, but I couldn’t go without saying it to all my beloved readers - I hope you all had a fab time!
> 
> Once again, thank you for your support and your patience while I’ve been writing this. Christmas, New Year and Sherlock Series Three does take it out of one, believe me. I feel like I’ve run the bloody marathon! 
> 
> To allay anyone’s fears, this story will not be influenced by the events of series three, or indeed any of the series to date. I only refer to them occasionally as a character study and I won’t be making any references to series three in this story. Officially Spoiler Free! 
> 
> Enjoy my lovelies! Xxx

No sooner had the words escaped John in a rush before Sherlock’s mouth was on his again, pushing his tongue past John’s lips and practically invading every corner he could reach. John moaned into the onslaught, letting his mouth go soft so Sherlock could explore to his heart’s content, the subtle dominance urging him to surrender to Sherlock in a way that somehow surpassed the surrender that came with pain.

He’d seen Sherlock do this before (not kissing because he would’ve remembered that), but absorb himself in something so entirely that the man experienced it with all his senses, and it still felt a little daunting to be on the receiving end because it was like being one of Sherlock’s experiments. This wasn’t completely the same as Sherlock’s experiments though, some of which could be started and forgotten about within the first five minutes. In this, John felt more like the very expensive bottle of Cockburn Vintage Port that Mycroft had given them as a post-case present (all national security, very hush hush), never mind the fact that Sherlock had flat-out refused to take it and Mycroft had given it to John for safe-keeping.

_“Nineteen-twenty-seven,” Mycroft drawled with a distinct authority when the port traded hands. “A very good year, John, so do try to make sure it doesn’t end up down your sink like the previous bottle. This vintage is very hard to come by.”_

_John nodded and quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock once Mycroft left the flat, querying, “So, your brother… Bit of a port fan, is he?” Sherlock didn’t dignify him with a reply, instead burying himself more deeply into his dressing gown and giving John ample opportunity to hide the gift before Sherlock could get any ideas._

It was a good thing John had hidden it too because, once the danger of Sherlock throwing a fit over seeing the bottle had passed, the port had definitely been something to savour. Sherlock himself had served the ruby liquid into glasses fit for the purpose and they’d both hummed appreciatively as the berry flavours, tinted with a smidge of toffee and chocolate that came from the aging process, swirled inside their mouths and left a deep burn when swallowed. It had been so good that even Sherlock had smiled with it.

_“It’s all chemistry,” Sherlock said, peering over the rim of his glass at John. “The time the grapes are picked, which ones you choose, the barrels the port is stored in. All done purposefully to achieve a certain result,” followed by another slow sip and accompanied with half-closed eyes and a deep rumble in Sherlock’s chest. “Of course they can’t account for all the variables, but this… This is exquisite.”_

Smiling into the kiss at the memory, John tangled a hand in Sherlock’s curls and slid his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s skull, increasing the pressure between their lips marginally before releasing his hold. “We shouldn’t keep Greg waiting,” he said and gasped when his bottom lip was nipped between Sherlock’s teeth.

“No, we really shouldn’t,” Sherlock agreed, pulling back and getting to his feet.

As Sherlock waltzed around the flat, gathering his shoes, coat and scarf, John finished dressing himself before he began to stand up and he couldn’t stop his jaw clenching when the plug twisted inside him, pushing on new muscles that had yet to get used to the unyielding stretch of the plastic. He was relieved in a way that the plug wasn’t long enough to reach his prostate, but he also wasn’t stupid enough to realise that it wouldn’t matter when Sherlock switched the damn vibrations on, and the smirk Sherlock gave him when they made eye contact left no doubt that the detective already knew this little fact. It was then that John felt a small bout of nerves at what they were about to do, which was bloody ridiculous really because he’d invaded Afghanistan and having a plug up his arse as they went to NSY certainly didn’t come anywhere close to that, but still…

Shoving his nerves aside, John applied himself to the task of finding his shoes, shifting from one foot to other as he gingerly tested any new limitations caused by the plug. It turned out it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be, so long as he didn’t make any sudden movements with his hips, and he shot a small grin at Sherlock as he slipped his shoes on.

When he was finally ready, navigating his way from the living room to the front door was proving to be a trial in its own right and John forced himself to use the time wisely. He tried not to think about the movement of the plastic inside him and made a concerted effort to walk as he normally would, shoulders back, feet square, facing forward and, _‘Holy Jesus, fuck!’_ His erection gave a deep throb at the first pulse of the toy and he stumbled against the wall next to the stairs, heaving in great gulps of air and clenching his eyes shut as each shift of his body pushed the vibrating toy against as yet untouched areas.

Only the tight grip of Sherlock’s hands around his waist stopped him from sliding to the floor in a heap and possibly tumbling down the stairs. “Careful,” Sherlock said as his breath ghosted over the nape of John’s neck. “We don’t want you have a little accident, do we. Now slow your breathing down, John. That’s it…”

Gradually John managed to be his breathing under control, using Sherlock’s touch at his waist to ground him though the intense sensations happening between his glutes. The rim of his arse continually clenched around the base of the plug and each pulse centred itself in his prick, which had gone from a vague awareness to _please-touch-me-right-this-second_. _‘I could come like this,’_ John thought, and bit into his bottom lip to distract himself because thinking like that certainly wasn’t going to help.

Neither was the second setting on the remote Sherlock held, followed quickly by the third.

“Sherlock! Oh God please!” John begged, the strength of the vibrations becoming audible when he unintentionally held his breath for a second or two. It was so wrong, but he half-hoped the Yard would have a nice grisly murder by the time they got there because it was becoming a very likely possibility that he would die of embarrassment if they were pulled into a quiet office with Lestrade on their own. He pressed his forehead against the wall he was partially leant against and wished it was colder, the sweat already beginning to form under the collar of his jumper as the toy had its ruthless way with him.

“Ssshhh…” Sherlock stroked one hand through John’s hair that left a tingling sensation in its wake, like a spider had just crept across his skull. The detective’s body heat pressed against his back, almost pushing him into the wall, and Sherlock’s coat draped around them in a small flourish before settling just within John’s line of sight where he was looking at the floor. He felt like he was being smothered. “Mrs Hudson is just downstairs. You don’t want her to hear, do you?”

John cursed again, reaching up for Sherlock’s hand on his head and twining their fingers together. “Sher… Ahh God, you’re killing me.” No, no, no, moving was _such_ a bad idea right now, don’t try to move… Try to move… Yes, just… there, _ung_ , “Yesss,” and, oh, when had his hips started moving? His jeans were so tight now, pressing on the head of his cock in a growing constriction as his flesh swelled beneath the fabric and Sherlock was so firm, Christ, was that Sherlock’s erection beginning to twitch against him? And the vibrations were _bloody fantastic,_ don’t stop, Sherlock, please, “Don’t stop…”

A small groan filled John’s ears. “Again,” Sherlock breathed, sliding the hand from John’s waist to the front of his jeans where he could barely feel the pressure.

“Don’t stop,” John repeated, his voice cracking a little at the end.

“Again…”

“Don’t… don’t stop, Sherlock, please.” Sherlock’s hand pressed against John’s erection with a firmer touch in answer, sliding the heel down his length once, twice, before it was gone and the vibrations did the exact opposite of his plea. John whimpered, actually _whimpered_ when Sherlock moved away, his hands gently turning John’s body so his back was against the wall. John looked up at Sherlock through vision gone slightly fuzzy around the edges, having to shut them for a second because Sherlock was looking at him like _that_ and it wasn’t fair that the other man looked that bloody gorgeous when all John wanted to do was climb up him.

“There’ll be time for that later,” Sherlock said, almost as though he’d read John’s mind and John’s thoughts, as highly strung as they were, immediately diverted to what Sherlock might be thinking about. Possibly of pressing him back against the wall and hoisting him up so he could wrap his legs around Sherlock’s hips as he was lowered onto a hard, thick cock, muffling his cries into Sherlock’s coat collar.

Oh, now there was a thought.

Maybe Sherlock would be fully clothed while John was completely naked, just opening the fly of his trousers so he could expose himself and all John would feel was the slick slide of that organ inside him, followed by the harsh press of a zip against the soft skin of his groin, making him hiss as the thrusts deepened, became harder… _‘Stop it, John!’_

“Are we going?” he asked, a little sharper than intended, but the look Sherlock gave him was completely understanding and, because of that, just a little infuriating.

“Whenever you’re ready,” was the reply, followed by a wink before Sherlock descended the stairs ahead of him. 

oOo 

The cab ride, to John’s relief, was completely uneventful. He’d been tense the whole time they were confined in the small space because the cabbie hadn’t even had the decency to put the radio on to cover up the noise if Sherlock activated the plug, but he supposed it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. Put simply, the toy wouldn’t have been heard because of the positively indecent amount of traffic on the road, _‘thank God for last minute Christmas shopping,’_ but Sherlock had probably had the same idea and was waiting for a more opportune moment.

Not that John could give it any more attention than that. No, all of his focus was on trying not to wince when he sat down, figuring out how to shift his body in a way that lessened the pressure in his groin and still managed to look normal. The chill of the weather helped disguise the flush in his cheeks at least (and he hadn’t had the forethought of grabbing his scarf or jacket) which meant he could use it as a viable excuse for his reactions to the toy. He could just envision the conversation… _“Sorry, Greg, I think I’m coming down with the flu. Can’t you tell by the flushing or the sweating? No, the moaning is actually me writhing in pain, not because I have a vibrating butt plug up my arse.”_

Yeah right…

Too soon for comfort, Scotland Yard loomed into view outside the cab window and John swallowed against the butterflies in his stomach, plucking at the sleeves of his jumper. He glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and saw the other man give him a measured look, actually saw Sherlock’s eyes glance down at what his hands were doing, before the detective passed the cabbie the fare and opened the door to the pavement, getting out with his coat flaring behind him.

John eyed the open door with a little wariness where Sherlock was waiting for him, suddenly unwilling to get off his seat for half a second and then telling himself, in no uncertain terms, to get a grip. _‘You got in the fucking cab, you can bloody well get out of it.’_ Shuffling along his seat, he murmured a quick thanks to the driver and stepped onto the payment, turning to shut the door after him. _‘Nnnggg… Should’ve accounted for that,’_ he thought;his eyes half closing when the turn in his body caused a similar, and altogether more pleasurable, twist in his arse.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice snapped him out of it, the daze he’d launched himself into, and he realised he’d been standing on the side of the road as though he wanted to cross it, judging by the looks of irritation on the drivers faces who were waiting for him.

“Sorry,” he said, mouthing the word more than necessary so the drivers could see it, and then stepped away from the curb so he could face the entrance to the Yard and Sherlock. He shrugged. “Lost myself there a bit.”

Sherlock put his hands into his coat pockets, sidling up to John until their proximity lay on the border of almost-too-close-between-friends. “Uncomfortable?” he asked, dipping his head down with his voice low.

“Not terribly, no.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s eyes glanced around the area, a subtle sweep, taking in the bustling streets and the few policemen who were still on duty. “Still, it would be terribly remiss of me to leave you out in this weather for longer than necessary.” He looked back at John and his eyes smouldered for an instant. “Shall we?”

The heat was the first thing to hit John when they walked through the front doors, the air conditioning set to what felt like tropical temperatures to keep the cold air out. Looking around, John saw that there were still quite a few people in the office and they looked rushed off their feet, the phones ringing almost constantly in the background as they tried to get everything sorted before their own holidays started. Honestly though, did the office have to be this damn hot? He felt the skin on his face prickle as the cold was leeched from it to be replaced with heat and he made a show of rubbing his hands up and down his arms as though he was warming up. Sherlock had barely paused once they’d entered the building and John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s back, following the taller man on the way to Lestrade’s office and quirking an eyebrow when Sherlock led them away from the quickest route. “Erm, Sherlock?”

“Just a little detour, John,” Sherlock said over his shoulder, marching his way through the corridors until John realised where Sherlock was taking them.

“And what exactly are we doing here?” John asked, watching as Sherlock checked down the corridor leading off from the main toilets with quick, almost erratic movements. “I thought you went before we left. What…? What are you doing? Oi!” John barely had time to react before Sherlock manhandled him to the disabled toilet on their right, one built for a single occupant, and pressed John against one of the walls with one hand while he turned and locked the door with the other. “What the hell are you doing?” John said and gasped when Sherlock turned back to him and pressed a gloved hand over his mouth.

“You didn’t think I’d let you off that easy, did you?” Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing as he took in John’s surprise like it was something rare to be dissected and categorised. “Coming to the Yard, a little buzz here and there to keep you on your toes while you struggle to keep a straight face? You clearly underestimate yourself, John, as you underestimate your ability to deal with this. I’m reminding you that I’m not here to make it easy for you.”

John muffled a protest under Sherlock’s hand, grabbing hold of Sherlock’s wrist to try and pull it away from his face. He got what he wanted (Sherlock did remove his hand under the pressure), but he didn’t expect the tables to be turned on him, the detective taking hold of his wrists and pinning them above his head, high up so he was almost on the tips of his toes. “Christ!”

“Know your place,” Sherlock growled, deep and unfathomable, and John’s bones ached when he finally understood what Sherlock was doing. His attempts to struggle out of the uncomfortable position stopped immediately and he sank against the tiled wall.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, keeping his head lowered and his eyes averted away from Sherlock’s. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s hands transferred John’s wrists until they were being held by just one and the fingers of the other crept under John’s chin, turning his head up so he could see Sherlock’s face. “Relax,” Sherlock said, pressing his face close to John’s until they were sharing the same breath. “Trust me.”

“I do,” John replied, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s briefly. “God help me, I do.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything further, kissing him again with a soft, almost tentative touch; an acceptance of John’s declaration. The hand underneath John’s chin slid down his body with no preamble, boldly cupping his groin and kneading his cock until it was straining under his jeans, stimulated by the rough press of Sherlock’s clever fingers. “Some ground rules,” he murmured, sharp eyes watching the way John’s body jerked against his hand. “You’re not allowed to lose your erection while we’re here and, if you feel like it’s happening, I want you to do something about it. You can think about whatever you want; the dirtier it is the better, quite frankly, but I’m not interested in how you do it. I want you as close to coming as you dare without going any further.”

" _Jesus,”_ John gasped, thrusting his hips into Sherlock’s hand and trying to stop himself at the same time. “What happens if I can’t control it?”

“Then I’ll tie you to the bed, put a bigger vibrator inside you and leave you there until the batteries run out,” Sherlock growled. “Oh yes, you might think it sounds good now,” he said, watching the flush spread over John’s face, “but it won’t be so much fun after the first hour. Not when I change the vibrations every few minutes, barely giving your body enough time to adjust. Can you imagine it, John? How your body would sink in relief at a lower one, only to be fraught with tension as you longed for a stronger pulse?”   

That was half the problem actually, because John could imagine it.

In detail.

His cock would be throbbing after the first ten minutes and his breathing would quicken, his voice becoming raw from his cries of pleasure after the first twenty. His wrists and ankles would start to ache after his almost constant tugging on his bonds and his body would be soaked with sweat, straining for a release that wouldn’t be granted until Sherlock allowed it. If prostate stimulation was involved he’d probably leak so much that, by the time he came, it would be dry, but so fucking strong that blacking out was a strong possibility.

Oh yes, he could imagine it, but he couldn’t decide whether he’d be begging Sherlock to stop after the first hour or pleading him for more.

“You need to stop making punishment sound bloody fantastic,” he said, allowing the desire he was feeling to colour his voice, to fill his eyes so it was all Sherlock would see.

Sherlock chuckled and the low sound curled around John’s prick and squeezed. “Don’t be fooled, John,” he said eventually. “It’s not an incentive.” He let go of John’s wrists, allowing him to settle his weight back on the heels of his feet. “Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s coat once his hands were free and rearing up to press his mouth against Sherlock’s, biting at his lips and sucking on Sherlock’s tongue until they were both panting. Only then did he pull back, licking the traces of Sherlock’s saliva from his mouth. “Let’s go.”

A few precious seconds were spared to check appearances in the loo mirror and then Sherlock was ushering John out the door towards the main corridor, and John exhaled a small sigh of relief that they hadn’t been spotted leaving the same toilet. He didn’t know what they’d have done if someone like-  

“So the DI finally arrested you, did he?”

John groaned inwardly, barely keeping the grimace off his face when Sally Donovan walked right up to them and stepped in front of their path. Just what he needed…

“Ah, Sally. Always a pleasure,” Sherlock said, giving her a cheeky grin and looking pointedly around the office. “Anderson not around?” At Sally’s glare, Sherlock’s face only settled into a knowing smirk. “Oh, away with the family, is he? Well, that’s to be expected. Can’t have the wife getting suspicious at such a festive time of the year.”

Sally frowned, her face almost turning to stone as she looked at John instead. “Why are you still following this guy?”

John pretended to think about it for a bit. “Err, because he’s bloody brilliant,” he replied, offering Sally one of his most pleasant demeanours. “And he’s good at what he does.” Including buggering the hell out of John’s mind but Sally obviously didn’t know that. _‘Speaking of buggering…’_ His cock twitched at the memory of Sherlock’s own hardness pushing its way inside him, larger than the toy currently taking its place by far, and John couldn’t wait to have it again. He knew he’d be stretched enough after the toy was removed so it was be so easy for Sherlock to push against his arse, forcing his way in until John felt the man’s balls on his cheeks.

Hmmmmm… Perhaps after they were through here.

Discernable to anyone because of the office noise, and perhaps because of the turn his thoughts had taken, the toy began to throb inside him.

John felt the muscles on his face freeze as the pleasurable sensations crept through his groin in a white hot smoulder, causing his passage to flex and grasp at the plastic warmed by his body heat. _‘For God’s sake, John, keep it together.’_ He shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to keep himself balanced and to give himself a small burst of relief from the gathering tightness in his abdomen, clasping his hands behind his back and unable to stop thinking about the plug happily buzzing in his arse. Somewhat sadistically for him, he really hoped Sally could read the satisfaction on his face because he doubted Anderson was even half as considerate a lover as his very own consulting detective, and Sherlock had such a good understanding of what John wanted, both in bed and out of it that it was difficult not to feel smug.

So much for feeling humiliated in front of Sally.   

Going by the look on her face, he was pretty sure some of it got through. “You’re both barmy. Completely mad!”

“Makes for an interesting ice-breaker,” Sherlock said, leaning down so he was at Sally’s eye level. “Now, if you don’t mind, Sergeant, we’re here to see the DI.” He looked over his shoulder at John and they both grinned stupidly at each other until Sally walked off with a huff, shaking her head as she went.

John wished he’d remembered his phone so he could take a picture and just about masked his grunt of displeasure with a fake cough when the toy stopped. “You’re a piece of work,” he said to Sherlock, not at all unkindly, and he knew Sherlock would know what he meant by it.

“Always, John,” Sherlock said, his eyes filled with humour and no small dash of desire before it was hidden again, recommencing their visit to Lestrade with a buoyancy in his step that John couldn’t stop smiling at.    

Lestrade’s door was open when they finally got there and Sherlock didn’t even voice a greeting, walking straight in and sitting in one of the two chairs opposite Lestrade’s desk, taking his gloves off and removing his scarf. The DI, currently on his mobile, gave Sherlock an impatient look before motioning John inside. John took the remaining seat with more care than it would normally warrant, trying to avoid pinching his dick in his zip because that would certainly kill off his libido, and took a moment to see that his seat was more in front of Lestrade’s monitor than the man himself. Sherlock’s chair to John’s left was more centralised, making the detective the more prominent figure, and John wondered whether Sherlock’s choice of seating was a deliberate one. No, scrap that. Whatever Sherlock did, it was always done deliberately.  

Across from them, Lestrade hung up on the other person and placed his mobile on his desk, huffing a bit before leaning back in his chair and absently twirling a pen between the fingers of his right hand. “Took you long enough! When I said before midday, Sherlock, I didn’t actually mean the exact minute before.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Shame. I’m not actually a mind-reader but I can understand why you’d think otherwise. Perhaps you should just specify a time.”

“Most people don’t need telling.”

“I’m not most people.”

John listened to the exchange with half an ear, his eyes dancing between Sherlock and Greg as they volleyed barbs at each other. It was all in good nature, of course, because Sherlock wasn’t stupid enough to piss off the one man who could cut off his access to crime scenes and, more than that, Greg actually seemed to be enjoying it. Maybe bantering with Sherlock provided him with some sort of stress relief and, considering the state of the people outside his office, John wouldn’t be surprised if some impromptu verbal sparring was just what Greg needed at this time of year.

_'You’re not meant to thinking about that, dammit!’_ Short of clamping his hands over his ears to drown out their words, John tried to let his focus drift away to the state of his cock without Greg noticing, feeling the distinct press of it inside his boxers as it fought for room in the small space. Despite his careful posture, any position would be uncomfortable now because Sherlock had made it impossible not to be hard. If he kept his erection, the pressure inside his jeans was enough to make him ache for more, no question, and if he somehow lost his erection, the very thought of what Sherlock would do to him afterwards was certainly more than adequate at making John’s blood rush in his veins. The thought of that vibrator inside him, left there for _hours…_  

“As riveting as this is, Lestrade,” Sherlock drawled, “I do have some cultures in the kitchen which are nearing a crucial stage in their development so if we could hurry this along…”

Lestrade paused mid-rant. “Cultures?”

“Yes. There is a rather virulent strain of TB that I simply must attend to before it spreads-”

That was enough to wake John up. “He’s kidding!” he interjected, leaning forward in his seat to get Lestrade’s attention and wishing that he really hadn’t when the toy moved with him, giving his cock a thick, almost lazy pulse. He kept his eyes on Lestrade’s face, forcing a calmness he really didn’t feel; all he really wanted to do was take his clothes off. “He’s kidding,” he repeated. “It’s just mould, not TB.”

Sherlock canted a look at him. “You’ve been paying attention.”

John shrugged. “Only so I know whether or not we need to borrow Mrs Hudson’s fridge. She’s going to start charging us for that, by the way.”

Sherlock made a vaguely disagreeing noise (probably at the audacity of being charged for a fridge he _never_ used), and turned his attention back to Lestrade. “Well, you wanted us here. Although why you couldn’t have just used John’s blog for our statements-”

“We’ve been over this,” Lestrade interrupted. “Look, I know it’s bothersome to your mould growths-”

“Cultures.”

Lestrade paused, taking a deep breath. “I personally don’t give a flying frack what you do in your own kitchen as long as I don’t get a phone call at the end of it, Sherlock. And you know we can’t use John’s blog because we need…”

John slouched back in his seat, rubbing a thumb and forefinger over his eyes as he waited for the end of the debate between the two men and nearly jumped half a mile when the vibrations started again.

From his slouched position with his legs slightly apart in front of him, the toy left little to no noise above the sound of the two men in the room with him but, oh boy, did it feel like they would notice anyway. The fingers of his right hand gripped the end of the arm rest until they were almost white, not that he could see this because his left hand was still covering his eyes, and his throat closed up as he fought the sharp intake of breath he wanted to make. Between his thighs his erection began to match the pulses of the toy, a thick weight in his trousers as it swelled further, and the vibrations made his arse start flexing again around the base, stimulating the smooth skin of his perineum in the process. It quickly became a constant battle to keep his breathing slow and even.

Until Sherlock upped the stakes, skipping the second and third setting and causing the toy to vibrate in small, even pulses.

A small groan slipped free from his lips, _‘Too late, couldn’t stop it, you know you couldn’t, just… Oh hell, that feels so good,’_ and he quickly clamped his mouth shut, a blush rising on his face that had nothing to do with the heat in the office.

“John? You okay?”

_'Oh, fuck right off, Greg!’_ He made what he hoped was an affirmative noise, rubbing his eyes in what he thought was a successful act at having the worst headache in existence. “’m okay. Just a headache…”

_‘Called Sherlock Holmes.’_

“You sure? You don’t look so well, mate.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, Lestrade,” Sherlock said smoothly. “He’s a doctor; he can take care of himself.”

When John opened his eyes, the DI didn’t look convinced. “Should you have come here in the first place? John, if you’re not well just say so and we can leave this till after Christmas.”

John didn’t dare look at Sherlock, but he could feel the detective’s eyes burning holes into the side of his head. Not that it had any bearance on his decision. “No it’s okay.” He shuffled in his seat, trying to adjust to the sensations and failing miserably when it just gave his cock more room to flex. His cheeks warmed and he could feel a flush sliding down his neck as it twitched in his boxers and he just knew that Sherlock was discretely watching it happen. “Best get this over with and then we can all go home.”

“Straight to bed for you, I think,” Lestrade said, giving him a concerned look and going over to the filing cabinet for the paperwork they’d need.

_'You have no idea,’_ John thought, risking a glance at Sherlock while Lestrade was busy and just stifling the moan he wanted to release. Beside him, Sherlock was almost glowing with satisfaction and beneath the mask of the cool, aloof detective there was a brief flash of hunger, like he wanted to bend John over Greg’s desk, pull the toy from his arse and eat him out until John was howling from it. And John wanted Sherlock to do it. Very, very badly.

A small movement in Sherlock’s right pocket caught John’s eyes for a fraction of a second, and then the vibrations increased in intensity (another level on the damned remote), so much they could now be heard between each pulse. Shooting an anxious look at Lestrade, John locked his spine straight against the urge to lean back against the chair, to arch back into the pressure of the toy and start palming himself roughly through his jeans. But he couldn’t quite control his breathing, couldn’t quite stop the muffled whimper that forced its way out of him, and his body writhed once in the chair, a slow, deep undulation that he had to stop right this second before-     

A tap on his left hand made him open his eyes again (when had he closed them?) and he saw Sherlock had grabbed his mobile before they’d left the flat, something which John had completely forgotten about in his haste to get them here. Unthinkingly, he took it off the detective and felt his face flush a deeper hue when Sherlock said quite clearly, “John, your phone’s going off.”

Fucking hell, was Sherlock trying to get Lestrade’s _attention?_ And why was that such a turn-on?

“Right… I’ll just get that then, shall I?” John couldn’t quite keep the bite out of his tone, but it was more out of the frustrated urge to tackle Sherlock off the chair and ride him on the office floor until John came all over that gorgeous purple shirt, rather than any misplaced anger on his part.

Sherlock, on the other hand, looked like he was enjoying every second of John’s discomfort, and he pointedly looked at the mobile before looking back at where Lestrade was still looking through the filing cabinet.   

And, just like that, the vibrations stopped.

John took a shuddering breath, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his jumper and willing down the blush in his cheeks as his body continued to clench around the toy, longing for the pleasure to continue. He leaned back to slip his mobile into his jean pocket, biting into his lower lip as his muscles tightened around the toy again before returning to his previous position.

At that point Lestrade came back to his desk (had he really been away for as long as it felt to John?) and placed two sheets of paper in front of them. “You’re probably best to take these away to one of the empty offices around the corner,” he said, placing two pens on top of the blank statements. “Don’t take all day though. I need these done within the next hour if you can manage it.” The last was said with a pointed look at John.

“As if we would take all day,” Sherlock said, pushing up out of his seat and reaching for his set of the papers. “I can assure you that we have much more interesting things that require our attention.”

“As do we all,” Lestrade said meaningfully, and he wasn’t actually talking about the same plans as Sherlock, he just couldn’t be because that would be too weird for John’s mind to handle.

With some careful manoeuvring on his part, John stood up and reached out for his own statement, but his fingers barely touched the paper before the toy started up again on the lowest setting. Lowest setting be damned, he still groaned with it and sat back down in his chair when his knees gave out, the pressure on his arse enough to make it feel like the toy was thrusting into him and making his body arch with surprised pleasure that he immediately wanted to replicate. His body was more than happy to make the decision for him, pressing his buttocks against the seat before thrusting his hips forward, and _there_ , there was the magic spot, God, was Lestrade watching? He must be, John hadn’t exactly been quiet and it felt so _good._ He wanted Greg to watch, to see what Sherlock was doing to him and be jealous of it; he wanted Greg to be absolutely blind with envy and he could do it, if he could just get his stupid trousers off-

“John!” Sherlock’s hands were on his face now, tilting his head forward from where it had fallen back to expose his neck, his fingers gently lifting one of John’s eyelids as though to check his pupil dilation while his other hand disappeared from view, taking one of John’s wrists and pressing his fingers into the area where John’s pulse would be. If it was anything like the heart beating in his chest and the roaring in his ears, John knew his pulse would be racing.

“Shit, John! Are you all right?” Lestrade came round to his side and placed a hand on his right shoulder, following Sherlock’s lead in believing it was a medical matter as he tried to make eye contact with him. “Jesus, Sherlock, you didn’t tell me he was this bad!”

“Sherlock,” John said, or tried to say because his tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth and his breathing had escalated into a series of short pants. “God please…”

“It’s ok, John,” Sherlock said, cupping a hand onto John’s face and holding him steady. “You’re fine, you’re doing brilliantly, just breathe, okay. Deep breaths with me and it’ll pass, all right. In, out, with me, that’s it… In, out…”

John had no idea how Sherlock managed to slip a hand into his coat pocket to deactivate the toy quietly buzzing inside him without Lestrade noticing, but it still made him choke back a sob when it stopped. He wanted to come so badly that it felt like his cock was trying to burst out of its own skin and having Sherlock’s hands on his body wasn’t enough, it would never be enough.

“I need to get him somewhere quiet,” Sherlock said to Lestrade, sliding a hand around the back of John’s head to stop it from falling back again. “Somewhere where he won’t be disturbed until I can get him back to the flat.”

“You can still use the offices around the corner,” Lestrade said and John felt the other man move away when Sherlock slid an arm around his waist and hoisted him to his feet. His hands caught on the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and he clutched onto it, pressing his face into Sherlock’s shirt and breathing in the scent of the man, the deep, musky odour of Sherlock’s natural scent and, when he pressed his ear to Sherlock’s chest, he could hear the rapid thump of the detective’s heart.

“Come on,” Sherlock was saying, “this way, John,” and John tried to follow Sherlock’s directions, he really did, but his legs felt like they’d turned to jelly.

“Bloody hell, come ‘ere,” Lestrade said and then one of John’s hands was pulled from Sherlock’s coat and wrapped around the back of Greg’s shoulders, Sherlock immediately copying the position until John was held up between the two of them. “This way.”

With their support, John managed to get his legs underneath him and they quickly moved from Greg’s office to one that was free, bare of everything except for the desk. As they moved into the room, an insane urge to giggle trapped itself in John’s throat and he stubbornly pushed it down, but he was being helped by the DI for having a vibrator up his arse for God’s sake! Who wouldn’t laugh?

Sherlock led them over to the desk and prompted John to get on its surface, laying him down so he was on his back with his calves hanging off the end while his hands gripped the edges on either side. “You can go now,” Sherlock told Lestrade and John saw the look Sherlock gave the DI, one that made him one to fist a hand in that too-tight shirt of Sherlock’s and pull him down into passionate kiss. He dug his nails into the wood of the desk instead, grunting at the pain to stop himself from doing exactly that.

“Do you need anything?” Lestrade asked. “We have trained medical staff here, they could help-”

“Thank you for the offer, Lestrade, but what John really needs now is some rest,” Sherlock interrupted, leaving John’s line of sight and presumably ushering the other man out the door. “I’ll text you when John’s ready to move but until then you need to leave. And don’t let anyone disturb us; I don’t want anyone else seeing him like this.”

Although clearly disgruntled on John’s behalf, something that John was quietly touched by, Lestrade eventually left them alone and the door closed with a resounding thunk, the tread of Greg’s shoes leaving the office until they faded completely. “Please,” John whispered when the coast was clear, looking over at Sherlock as his body writhed on the hard surface. Sherlock came over to stand at his side, tracing John’s face with the tips of his fingertips while his eyes bore into John’s own.

“John,” Sherlock murmured and the way he said the word made the hair on John’s arms stand on end, it was filled with so much want.

“Touch me,” John pleaded, thrusting his hips up using the leverage his hands could give him on the desk. “Please, Sherlock, touch me.”

Sherlock’s hands left his face, sliding down over his jumper until they reached the button on his jeans, undoing it and pulling the zip down. John groaned at the release of the pressure on his erection, arching his neck and shuddering when Sherlock’s hands tugged his boxers down and exposed his cock, so hard and already dripping with pre-come. “You are fantastic,” Sherlock said, leaning down so he could suck at John’s bottom lip. “Do you know what I wanted to do to you in Lestrade’s office? Knowing the plug was buzzing inside you and you were helpless to do anything about it?” A noise which was almost a growl escaped Sherlock’s throat, his face turning dark, possessive, before he tucked it into John’s neck, the long fingers of one hand pulling down the neck of John’s jumper so he could sink his teeth into the flesh above John’s collar-bone.

“Fuck!” The word would have had more volume, had John had the air to express it, but it was very quickly drowned out by Sherlock’s own noise of pleasure, the detective pulling back so he could seize John’s mouth in a fierce kiss. John kept his hands on the edges of the desk as Sherlock devoured him, gripping its surface until his fingers ached because he didn’t trust himself not to bury them in Sherlock’s thick curls or wrap them around his own cock if he loosened his hold. Sherlock’s left hand followed the path of John’s right arm from shoulder to wrist and John could taste Sherlock’s approval as he loosened John’s fingers and laced them with his own, bringing their joined hands up to the side of John’s head on the desk.

“Good, John,” Sherlock murmured against John’s lips, squeezing their hands together. “Very good.”

John sobbed into Sherlock’s mouth, pressing his head back against the wood to stop himself from begging Sherlock for the release he so badly yearned for. At the open fly of his jeans, his prick twitched continuously, each brush of the tip against his abdomen smearing his skin with the sticky fluid leaking from his slit.  

“How badly do you want to come right now?” Sherlock asked, reaching down with his free hand to tease John’s cock, dragging one finger along the vein from root to tip.

“God…” John shut his eyes as that finger stayed on the tip, spreading his pre-come around until the flared head was slick with it. “So much,” he said, reaching up with his left hand and curling his fingers into the fabric of Sherlock’s coat. “I want it so much, Sherlock, _please_ let me…” and clamped his lips shut because he knew once he started begging he’d never stop.

Sherlock pulled back, the exact opposite of what John wanted him to do, but before John could voice a protest Sherlock took hold of John’s wrists and tugged him to an upright position, stepping back a pace and getting John to stand beside the desk. His eyes were half-lidded when John looked at them, the colour almost silver with pupils blown wide, and John had to remember how to breathe. “Show me,” Sherlock murmured, taking his hands away from John altogether. “If you really want to come, show me how much you want it.”

John groaned, desperate now that he’d been given permission to do something and his prick jerking in the cool air of the office as Sherlock’s demand got to him in the best of ways. He did the first thing that came to mind, sliding his hands into Sherlock’s hair and kissing him, putting all his hunger into it as he pushed his tongue into Sherlock mouth to tangle it wetly with Sherlock’s own.

Not wanting to linger for too long on one thing, he tore his mouth away after a minute, pressing his lips along Sherlock’s jaw, _‘such a strong jawbone, so hot, God, I want him,’_ and pushing Sherlock’s shirt collar out the way with his fingers so he could attack the length of Sherlock’s neck. He mouthed the pale skin, nipping it gently and soothing with warm lips and an agile tongue, travelling up until he reached Sherlock’s right ear and taking the lobe between his teeth. As well as hearing it, John felt the moan Sherlock released when he licked at the lobe and teased the sensitive skin behind it, felt the vibrations of it pass from Sherlock’s throat to his lips in a little miniature earthquake. God, the man’s voice was incredible.

John shuddered at the noise, pressing his body close to Sherlock’s and pushing a leg between Sherlock’s thighs against the hardness there, already straining against the expensive dress trousers that the detective insisted on wearing. John took a second to thank whatever deity existed for Sherlock’s refractory period, having only just sucked him off earlier that morning, so to find him hard again already was truly a blessing. He barely had to think of his next move, it was so obvious, needing his hands full of that cock almost as much as he needed it to fuck him on the desk, and it was so simple now to undo Sherlock’s trousers, reach inside and…

_Oh_ , he really should do this more often. In his haste to get to Sherlock’s prick, he’d almost completely forgotten about his own, already throbbing in need as it came close to brushing against the one John held in his hands. The image of the two of them together, jerking them off at the same time until Sherlock’s come spurted hot and wet over John’s fingers and cock, burned across his brain and it was just too good to pass up. He hopped back onto the desk to gain a small height advantage and perched on the edge of it as he pulled Sherlock towards him by his hips, shoving their clothes out the way and grasping their lengths to press them together with a fevered need. Sherlock’s breath huffed out of him at the first touch, helpfully adjusting his stance so they were practically flush from root to tip and John could wrap his hands around them, easing their foreskins back and beginning to slowly stroke them.

_‘Really, really need to do this more often,’_ John thought, panting into the hollow of Sherlock’s throat and squirming when one stroke was just right, their cock-heads thrusting against each other with each small movement of their hips. In front of him, Sherlock was becoming a bedraggled mess, moaning into John’s hair and gently encouraging John’s manipulations as he kept their bodies close together.

_‘Oh… Oh God, right there, right… there, I’m gonna…’_ Abruptly John released his grip, fighting down the whine as the stimulation ceased because he couldn’t, _couldn’t_ disobey Sherlock, no matter how much they both seemed to want it.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had no such hesitations.

Growling, he pushed John back against the desk and began to tear at his shoes, nearly taking one of John’s feet with them before wrestling John’s trousers and boxers off his legs. Exposed from the waist down, John blushed so hard he felt it all the way down to his sternum and barely stifled the yell he made when Sherlock’s fingers gripped the plug and began to pull it out, slowly to start and then with more pressure until his body yielded its hold with a trickle of lube.

He didn’t even hazard a guess at where the toy disappeared to, barely had time to get used to the feeling, _‘empty,’_ and then Sherlock was hoisting him up again, leading them both to the wall next to the door and pressing John into it harshly. “ _Yes,_ ” John whispered, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck as the other man gripped his buttocks and effortlessly lifted him up, using the wall as leverage until John could wrap his legs around Sherlock’s middle and, _Jesus,_ Sherlock’s cock was right there, right fucking _there,_ so hot and pushing inside so sweetly that John actually thought he was going to cry.  

Once buried in John’s heat, Sherlock wasted little time, slipping his hands under John’s knees so his calves ended up resting on Sherlock’s shoulders and fucking him deeply, the moist sound of their joined bodies almost lost in the harsh noises coming from them both as Sherlock used him for their pleasure. John badly wanted to reach between them and stroke himself off, but there wasn’t enough room between his abdomen and thighs and he whimpered when he realised Sherlock had near enough bent him in half against the wall. “Please,” he begged, “please, Sherlock…”

“Don’t you dare come,” Sherlock said roughly, ignoring John’s begging, his hips moving in a seamless rotation. “I want you to hurt with it, you want it so much. I want you to _suffer_ , John.”

Jesus, the word by itself was enough to threaten the very command Sherlock had given him, and John gritted his teeth when Sherlock’s thrusts sped up, became mindless and uncoordinated, and then Sherlock was coming. John whimpered as Sherlock moaned into his throat, the man’s hips moulding themselves against John’s glutes in an effort to bury his prick as deeply as he could, and John swore he could feel the heat of Sherlock’s release as that hardness throbbed inside him. “Please,” he whispered, so far gone he could barely see when he opened his eyes, he _needed_ so much. “Please, please, please…”

The last shudders worked their way from Sherlock’s body to his, the detective gasping hotly into his neck and letting John’s legs slip down from their perch on Sherlock’s shoulders. As his legs came away, Sherlock’s cock slipped wetly from his hole and John closed his eyes, panting at the sensation of Sherlock’s release dripping down his thighs, having to lean against the wall when his legs started to tremble.

Later, John would tell himself that he couldn’t help it. He’d been waiting so long that it really wasn’t his fault and he could do so much better next time, but that was later, and right now, when hot, wet heat wrapped around the head of his cock and sucked him down in one smooth glide, John’s only coherent thought was, _‘Oh my God!’_

Looking down between his legs, he saw Sherlock’s mouth had taken him in all the way to the base and, _fuck,_ how the fuck did Sherlock do that? He cried out when he felt a tightening around the head of his cock and it was only when it happened a second time that he realised Sherlock was swallowing around him, using his throat muscles to squeeze John’s cock and it really didn’t take long at all after that. Not when Sherlock was looking up at him, watching him fall apart as Sherlock expertly deep-throated him, his pretty lips sucking on John’s cock and using his tongue like _that_ and, “Argh, Sherlock!”

The world began to gradually re-orient itself through the haze John found himself in, moaning quietly when Sherlock’s lips slid from his body and the cool air hit too sensitive flesh. He watched as Sherlock stood up and wiped his mouth with a finger, God that was hot, looking back at John and wearing a cat-got-the-cream smirk. “Where _the fuck_ did you learn how to do that?” he asked, the words broken amidst his panting as Sherlock walked back to the desk and gathered John’s clothes.

Sherlock helped him back into his clothes, gently putting his prick back in his boxers and even going as far as to put John’s shoes on for him, tying the laces with quick, efficient knots. After that, John’s arms were full of a gloating, thoroughly pleased detective who was generously snogging the living daylights out of him, and John was being literally held up by Sherlock when he couldn’t taste his come and he knew he’d just come down Sherlock’s throat.

“Now that,” Sherlock murmured with a smirk when they stopped for breath, “would be telling.”  

_To be continued_


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: God, it's good to be back! 
> 
> This chapter has been through at least five re-writes, including additions, omissions and generally me battling writer's block with every word. But we're getting there!
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your support; I'm not sure I could do this without you! 
> 
> Enjoy xxx

_Christmas Eve – late evening_

“Do you think Greg’s figured it out by now?” John called into the living room, just about registering the sound of Sherlock’s dismissal. “Because I wasn’t exactly subtle today, you know,” he continued, finishing their tea and taking the cups into the living room, setting Sherlock’s on the coffee table when he saw the detective had sprawled himself along the couch with nothing but his dressing gown on. The tartan one rather than his blue silk one. It must have been in the wash.

“Lestrade isn’t that observant,” Sherlock said, a sliver of colour emerging as he watched John take a sip of his tea. “And even if he was, I doubt he’d be able to handle the reality of the situation and would therefore be more inclined to believe our little fabrication.”

John put his cup down and nudged Sherlock’s legs to persuade him to budge up. “Greg’s not that bad; he picks up more every time we go to a crime scene. So are we going to talk about this?”

Sherlock closed his eyes again, pulling his legs up enough to allow John to sit down before promptly dropping his bare feet in John’s lap and wriggling his toes. “Talk about what?”

John recognised the toe wriggling for the request it was and took Sherlock’s left ankle in his hands, experimentally pressing the pads of his thumbs into the ball of Sherlock’s foot and giving him an impromptu massage. He knew he didn’t have to worry about his technique when he glanced up and saw the relaxation beginning to spread on Sherlock’s face. “Oh I don’t know. How about you shagging me blind at the Yard and possibly coming out to Greg at the same time?”

Sherlock smiled, the tilt of his lips bordering on smug even with his eyes closed. “The shag was extremely satisfactory.”

Satisfactory wasn’t the word that John would have used. Mind-blowing, fantastic, endorphin-laced bliss were more accurate terms for what had happened at the Yard, but he wasn’t about to let Sherlock change the direction of a conversation he clearly wanted to avoid. “Stop trying to change the subject. This is important, Sherlock.”

“I don’t see why,” Sherlock said, a small groan hitching the words when John pressed his fingers just so. “Why does it matter if people think we’re a couple or not? Everyone thinks we’re together anyway.”

John couldn’t argue with him there, not when half the Yard and John’s own work had not-so-secret bets on which concerned a part of their relationship that hadn’t existed until after the club. It still wasn’t the point though. “I was hoping that we could be a bit more subtle about it. You know, tell people close to us first before it becomes public knowledge.”

“And since when have we ever been subtle about anything?” Sherlock asked. “We go to crime scenes where I denounce the ability of the police to do their job, often publicly, and you write about it on your blog which has grown in followers at the same rate as the demand for our expertise.” Another breathy moan, one which had John trying to replicate the move he’d just done so he could try and get another one just like it. “The reality is; we are anything but subtle.”

Sherlock was right, of course. They hadn’t exactly tried to stay away from the media attention the cases had brought them, which had led into more publicity and more cases; a fact that neither of them had complained about. And it wasn’t like John could say this wasn’t how he imagined a relationship with a man would be because he hadn’t given it any thought before. He hadn’t been gay (still wasn’t, not really) and was in his first relationship with a man who was the most extravagant, pompous, perfect human being he’d ever had the privilege to meet.   

Even if he was an arrogant git half the time.

Sherlock didn’t voice any protest when John told him so, but it may have been down to the press of John’s fingers into the arch of Sherlock’s foot that forced any thoughts in Sherlock’s head to careen off his mental roadside. John smiled at the expression on Sherlock’s face, sighting an opportunity to lull the detective into accepting tomorrow’s festivities. “I’ll wear the suit you bought for me,” he said, pressing his thumb into the curl of Sherlock’s toes and extending them with a gentle push. “The one from the club.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened and locked onto his, perhaps looking for any sign that John might be teasing him. Satisfied, he closed his eyes again, curling his right arm under his head while his left settled over the knot of his dressing gown. “Acceptable.”

A comfortable silence followed and John was just debating whether to turn the telly on when Sherlock pushed himself up onto his elbows and took a hold of John’s jumper, tugging on it insistently. “What?” John asked, taking his hands away from Sherlock’s feet and leaning across as much as his current position would allow.

Sherlock didn’t elaborate beyond his tugging and eventually John just followed Sherlock’s directions, resulting in him lying half of top of the man with his left leg pressed between Sherlock’s thighs. “Mmmm, much better,” Sherlock said and John felt the rumble of that voice travel from his sternum to his pelvis at a shocking speed.

Glancing down their bodies, he saw that Sherlock’s dressing gown had parted below the knot, exposing bare, creamy thighs and was just shy of uncovering Sherlock’s groin. Back in a clean pair of jeans, John was keenly aware of the contrast between his clothed body and Sherlock’s pale skin, wondering if he parted the rest of the gown how much it would reveal. Was Sherlock naked? Was he hard?

“So what did you want to do tomorrow?” he asked, attempting to divert his mind from the physical for ten minutes before they ended up having sex on the sofa.

Sherlock’s right hand slipped around his neck, pulling him down into a soft kiss. “I want to give you your present,” he said and that prompted John to look under the branches of the tree, spotting a large rectangular box that hadn’t been there before.

When he looked back at Sherlock, he knew he’d just correctly guessed his present by the gleam in Sherlock’s eyes. “Am I allowed to guess what it is?” John asked, smoothing his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and encouraging the ringlets to wrap around his fingers. Fresh from the shower, Sherlock hadn’t bothered to tame his hair by adding any products and it allowed the curls to drop down around the soft skin at the back of his neck, by his ears and, perhaps the most arresting of the three, his eyes.

John purposefully pulled on Sherlock’s fringe, arranging it so Sherlock’s eyes were just visible, and leant back to survey his work. Sherlock huffed a breath up, causing his fringe to move slightly before it settled back into position, and John’s amused grin earned him a quiet smoulder. “You could,” Sherlock said, tipping his head back so his neck was bared in an inviting stretch. “But that would rather ruin the whole point of this ridiculous holiday.”

“S’not ridiculous,” John murmured, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s throat. “It brings people together for at least one day of the year for-”

“Food, drink, the tradition of trading last year’s unwanted gifts and a frankly obscene amount of sex,” Sherlock interrupted, wrapping his arms around John’s back and burying his fingers under the waistline of John’s jeans.

“Sounds good to me,” John agreed, slipping his left hand through the V of Sherlock’s dressing gown to stroke across his chest. “I don’t think there is such a thing as too much sex with you though.”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his lips curving into a small smile. “True. Although your body might have something to say about that.” A hand pushed into John’s boxers and cupped an arse cheek, squeezing the muscle experimentally.

John made a throaty sound that could have been described as a purr and buried his face in Sherlock neck again. “Just means you’ve been giving me a good workout,” he murmured, clenching his buttocks under Sherlock’s fingers. “And sometimes it’s nice to be a little sore afterwards. For wanking material.”

“‘Wanking material?’”

“Yeah. Sometimes reliving the memories of fantastic sex can be just as good as the actual thing.”

Sherlock pinched the skin under his fingers in retaliation, making John wince. “If that’s the case I’m not doing it correctly.”

“Or,” John said, taking a moment to swirl his index finger around Sherlock’s right nipple and feeling it pebble under his touch, “it means you’re bloody amazing and I can’t wait till we do it again.”

“Also acceptable,” Sherlock said, coaxing John into another kiss; a slow, more sensual one that had John’s toes curling in their socks.

“I have a question,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips when they parted for air, panting gently against each other. “If you’re so against the party tomorrow, why did you want to have it at three o’clock rather than in the evening?” Sherlock had been quite adamant on that account, stipulating that if they were going to host a Christmas gathering again this year then it would be on his terms. No sooner than three o’clock and no later than seven. John had been curious but hadn’t thought to question it; now, with no work and seemingly unlimited time, it was the perfect moment to voice that curiosity.    

“It’s taken until now for you to ask that question?” Sherlock asked. “I’m surprised, John.”

“Well, I figured you had your reasons,” John said, getting himself comfortable and resting his head on Sherlock’s left shoulder. “Feel like telling me now?”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock mused, distractedly running his fingers through John’s hair. “And what makes you think I should tell you?”

John smiled, his eyes closing as Sherlock fingertips sent pleasant tingling sensations across his head. “Because I’m genuinely curious and I’ve got presents under the tree.” Let Sherlock figure _that_ one out.

It only took a moment and a huff from the man beneath him. “Your poorly hidden reference to being a ‘good little boy’ because an old, hairy man in a red suit decided to bring you presents is the most ridiculous reason I’ve ever heard.”

John laughed, smothering the sound into Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s a good thing it’s true.”

“I suppose at least one half of your statement is correct,” Sherlock relented, resuming his stroking of John’s hair. “I was going to wait until tomorrow to tell you the reason why, but this way you will get some notice before everyone else does.”

John frowned; that sounded ominous. “What are you doing, Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a long minute and finally gave a deep sigh. “I have yet to tell Lestrade that I am officially unavailable for cases until further notice.”

Wait, what?

“But you’ve never been unavailable for cases,” John said, lifting his head up to look at Sherlock properly.

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said, meeting John’s eyes. “It won’t be for very long. Just a week or so.”

 Even a day without any cases was too long for a Sherlock who was in one of his moods. John could attest to that. “And what will you be doing during this week off?” he asked, lightly stroking the fabric of Sherlock’s dressing gown.

“Correction; what will _we_ be doing?” Sherlock said, sliding out from under John and walking to the bookshelf, pulling out a slip of paper for John to read.

John took the paper, curious, his eyes taking in the address written on it. “Sussex?” He looked back at Sherlock in confusion. “What’s in Sussex?”

“Just a little getaway,” Sherlock said, plucking the address from John’s fingers and sliding it back into place on the bookshelf. “You haven’t had a holiday since you returned from Afghanistan and our trip to Baskerville doesn’t count. I want a week away with you, no distractions and no interruptions.”

John stared at Sherlock’s back, completely baffled and surprised all at once. He wouldn’t have guessed that this was something Sherlock would want to do with him, since the Work almost always came first, or that this was even a thing. Was this a Thing? “So when were you planning to go?”

“After the Christmas party; I want us there tomorrow night if the snow will let us.”

John grinned, feeling a little overcome as he imagined a quiet little cottage out the in the middle of nowhere; the epitome of Britain on a Christmas card with all the snow, frosted glass and a roaring fire in the hearth. Maybe they’d even see a robin or two. “That sounds bloody fantastic!”

“Good.” The paper now safely put away, Sherlock made his way back to where John was lying on the sofa, sitting on the edge of a cushion so he was leaning over where John was now lying on his back. “Now, my dear doctor, I do believe there’s a British tradition we are missing out on this Christmas Eve.” One artfully delicate hand reached for the remote and turned the TV on, flicking through the channels until the opening music of ‘A Muppets Christmas Carol’ resounded through the speakers. “Namely, the one where we watch a dreadful Christmas film celebrating the supposed goodness of humanity and hope tomorrow doesn’t turn into as much as a ball’s ache as we think it will.”

John scoffed, pushing himself up so Sherlock could lie against his chest for a change. “Muppets Christmas Carol is the best Christmas film _ever_ , Sherlock Holmes, and I’ll give you a list of reasons as long as my arm to prove it. Number One…”

It would be a while later before they remembered their tea.

oOo

_Christmas Day - morning_

“You know, most people have been up since six and opened all their presents by now,” John said around a mouthful of toast. Waking up after nine on Christmas morning was a bit of a surreal experience, to be honest. Already well into his late thirties, John had assumed he’d be married with a couple of kids and a dog by now, but he could honestly say that he didn’t envy those parents that had children banging open the bedroom door to try and persuade mummy and daddy that four in the morning was a brilliant time to get wrapping paper all over the living room floor.

In stark contrast, a warm and snuggly Sherlock was by far the preferred alarm clock, especially when he was just stirring from his REM cycle so John could watch the moment when those gorgeous eyes peeked beneath sleep-heavy lashes.

“Yes and most of those people also have their two and half children, a dog and a picket fence,” Sherlock said, peering over the top of his newspaper to glare at John. “Boring.”

“Dreadfully,” John agreed, pretending not to notice Sherlock’s small smile as he stood up to go to the kitchen, finishing his breakfast along the way and snagging his tea on his return. “Although it’ll be interesting to see how many you guess correctly before we open them,” he said, settling into his armchair with a sigh. “Try and beat your score from last year; what was it? One out of thirty wrong?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly. One out of forty-six.” The detective had built up a significant fan-base from John’s blog, mostly made up of women and a few men who wanted to show their undying love by sending him trinkets they thought he would appreciate.

All of them had been binned after they were opened.

Except for the poisonous ones, which had been carefully stored so they could be examined later, and the paperweight with an extinct species of insect buried in amber. That had stayed too, although not for the reason the sender originally intended. John had yet to figure out what Sherlock wanted to do with it, fervently hoping that a rewrite of Jurassic Park wasn’t on the cards.

Sherlock closed the newspaper with a flourish and set it down to one side. “Why the sudden interest? You normally tell me off for deducing presents ahead of time.” A light seemed to switch on behind Sherlock’s eyes and he smirked. “Oh I see. Lestrade has a bet with you.”

John shrugged. “He wants to see how many you get wrong. I owe him twenty quid for each one you guess incorrectly. If you get them all right, Greg owes me fifty.”

Sherlock stood, adjusting his suit jacket before he knelt down beside the tree and rooted underneath it through the decorative parcels. “The bet can wait. There’s something I want to give you first.” John watched in amusement as over half of Sherlock’s presents still were deduced before being discarded without being opened, shaking his head when Sherlock brought back the gifts he considered the most important.

The ones from the both of them, obviously.

Sherlock passed him the large box he’d seen the night before and John kept its heavy weight balanced on his lap as he watched Sherlock try to deduce his own present, a wrapped up tube about the length of a man’s arm. “Well go on then,” he said, unable to keep the grin from his face as Sherlock tried to rattle the present inside with no sound at all. “You may as well go first. The anticipation will kill you otherwise.”

Sherlock didn’t need any further excuses and tore the wrapping paper from one end, popping open the lid with a look of intrigue on his face. John tried not to fidget as Sherlock reached a hand inside, feeling around the tube and pulling out a single sheet of A2 card, the highest quality that John had been able to find. Sherlock put the tube down to one side and unrolled the card, his eyes immediately darting to the pictures John knew would be printed on the other side. The sharp intake of a surprised breath told John everything he needed to know.

“I decided on this ages ago,” John said, putting his present down carefully and coming to Sherlock’s side so they could look at the pictures together, John perching himself on the armrest of Sherlock’s chair to get a better look. “But I wasn’t sure how many I should make so I decided on the full course, so to speak.”

“John…” The word was scarcely breathed, Sherlock’s fingers reverently touching one of the pictures and stoking around a highlighted area. “Are these…?”

“Yeah, those two are joy,” John said, motioning to the relevant MRI scans and smiling at the wonder on Sherlock’s face. “I was thinking about the last time you fell in a pond for a case and I kept getting told off because I couldn’t stop shaking inside the machine.” 

A flicker of a smile appeared on Sherlock’s face; he remembered too. “And these ones?” Sherlock asked, pointing at another set of scans.

“That’s fear,” John murmured and Sherlock looked up at him with something akin to shock. “From when I thought you’d been stabbed outside The Six Bells,” John explained. “Turns out even us war veterans can still get scared sometimes.”

Sherlock looked back at the pictures in their matching sets, saying the different parts of the brain where the highlights were as though reciting them to memory. John mentally went through the names of each emotion in time with Sherlock’s words and, although Sherlock more than likely knew which areas corresponded to which emotion already, John hoped that he would be able to tell Sherlock in the future what each of them meant purely because of the experiences that went with them.

Long moments passed before Sherlock rolled the card back up and put it back in its tube with a care he usually reserved for his experiments, ensuring the lid was secure and holding the tube steady in his hands. “Thank you, John.”

Any response John thought he could make fled at the gratitude in Sherlock’s voice; in the face of such honesty, a simple ‘you’re welcome’ would never have sufficed. He nodded instead and leant across to press a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s temple, paying silent homage to the mind that embodied Sherlock’s very being.

“How long did it take you to get them all done?” Sherlock asked after a while, smoothing his fingers along the tube now free of any wrapping paper.

“Just over six months,” John said. “I wanted to work myself up enough for each emotion so it would register clearly on the MRI scan.”

“So any experiments that incited anger in you were remembered for later use?”

“Yes but that’s no excuse for you to try and replicate it,” John said firmly. “Besides, I don’t think the hospital is going to let me get another MRI again.”

“Shame,” Sherlock said, putting the tube down beside his chair and tugging John into his lap, pressing his face into John’s neck. “I’m wondering how it will look when you’re experiencing orgasm.”

John smiled, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s hairline. “Then you’d have to find a very open-minded doctor. I can’t think of anyone who’d be happy to let you blow me while I’m having the scan done.”

“But it’s for science, John! Just think of how much we’d be able to test.” Sherlock’s voice was teasing but John didn’t doubt that he’d leap at the opportunity if given the chance.  

“Good luck trying,” he replied, kissing Sherlock’s forehead. “So should I go and open my present now?” he asked, pushing himself off of Sherlock’s lap and gently disengaging Sherlock’s arms when they attempted to keep him in place. “I’m wondering if it’ll trump my present to you.”

Sherlock smirked, crossing one leg over the other as he watched John pick up the gift again. “Don’t let me stop you.”

John read the label attached to the paper and laughed at the words; there weren’t any wishes of merriment, just a simple instruction not to shake the box as the contents were fragile. “Now I’m curious,” he said, tearing open the paper and revealing a heavy oak box. The stain on the wood was a deep red colour, almost black, and there was a gorgeous design stencilled onto the lid that he was immediately enraptured by. Looking at the picture carefully, John could see the outlines of a violin within the swirling mass of gold lines and there was an open book with a pen lying across the blank pages. Two symbols deeply entwined by the lines which looped and curled around them, binding them together almost as surely as they were bound by their owners.

“Sherlock, this is amazing,” he said, looking back up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Did you design this?”

“Not completely,” Sherlock admitted, resting his hands on his bent knee. “I gave a verbal indication of what I wanted to an expert who perfected the end result.”

“Beautiful,” John murmured, stroking a finger across the violin before flicking open the gold-plated clasp at the front and opening the lid to reveal the contents.

He was unprepared for the shock that rocketed through his system, a gasping noise ripping its way from his throat when he saw what was inside the box, his hands clutching at the sides with trembling fingers. He heard Sherlock shifting in front of him but no words were spoken. John didn’t think he’d have heard anything Sherlock said at that point; he was utterly fixated.

The inside of the box was lined in black velvet, soft to the touch when John stroked his thumbs along the sides, unable to take his eyes away from the items which had been carefully compartmentalised in a top tray. Along two thirds of the box’s width, a single layer of white paraffin candles were side by side, along with a strip of black silk which had been folded to take up the rest of the space. There were ten candles in total, about thirty centimetres long, and he stroked along one of them with a finger that still shook. _‘Oh my God…’_

There was only one reason Sherlock would be giving him these and he’d had no idea that Sherlock wanted to try this with him. There hadn’t been the slightest hint towards a discussion about hot wax play or even a passing comment from the detective about his internet history, but leave it to Sherlock to deduce his darkest fantasies without telling him. His face flushed with the possibilities of the scene, wondering what had been going through Sherlock’s head when he was buying them, placing them into this very box for future use. There were only ten candles so they would need replacing depending on how Sherlock used them; would he let the wax pool at the wick before he let it flow in a stream onto John’s skin? Or would he tilt the flame so the wax fell in rhythmic drips, letting the heat melt the candle on one side so the other half remained untouched?

The tray holding the candles and silk was removable and, when he lifted it off, the bottom of the box was also lined in the same black velvet and enclosed very different items. Glimmers of shining metal reflected in the morning light as he reached inside one to pull out four chains, the links barely half a centimetre thick and clinking together as he tested their strength. John might have misheard it, but Sherlock’s breath seemed to catch at the sound from the chains, no doubt imagining what they would look like when used, and John realised they were long enough to keep his wrists and ankles bound and spread to each corner of a bed, each chain having snap hooks at either end so they could be attached to other things.

Like the black leather cuffs which remained.

Fleece lined, there were two sets of cuffs and they were beautiful. The leather was soft and sturdy under his touch, his fingers teasing at the D-links attached to each one and having an idea of where the chains were meant to go. He took another deep, shuddering breath, unintentionally holding it at the sight of the leather and the soft fleecing, imagining how they would feel around the tender skin of his wrists and ankles. These wouldn’t burn or chafe him after prolonged use, not like some of the others he’d seen bandied around in Ann Summers when an ex-girlfriend wanted to buy herself some new underwear, but these didn’t look like they’d been made by Ann Summers.

None of the items did. All of them were of an exemplary quality and he was willing to wager that each of them had been hand-selected by none other than Sherlock himself.

Footsteps echoed in ears that felt like they’d gone hollow. Every sound seemed far away as John stared at his gift, wondering if he was experiencing the onset of tunnel vision. Slender fingers placed the opened box on the floor to one side and took the cuffs from him, pushing back his left jumper sleeve and undoing one cuff before slipping it around his wrist and tightening it until the buckle could be fastened. After the cuff was secure, Sherlock’s fingers stayed put, gently stroking the skin left exposed and dipping the tips underneath, testing the give to make sure it fitted properly. 

John wanted to say so many things. Words like ‘thank you’ seemed appropriate given the nature of Sherlock’s gift to him, but everything seemed dim and unimportant in comparison to the question he really wanted to ask. “When?”

Sherlock finished his inspection of the cuff and seemed satisfied, undoing the buckle. “Not yet.”

The cuff was taken from him and placed back in the box with the others, along with the chains, candles and silk, and his wrist suddenly felt naked. He wrapped his other hand around it, trying to replicate the feeling of the cuff and failing miserably. “Today?” he asked.

The clasp was shut on the box with an air of finality and lifted away, placed on the table close to the window; John couldn’t take his eyes away from it. “This evening if we can manage it,” Sherlock said, coming back to his knees in front of him and curling his fingers around John’s wrists, perhaps to mimic the feeling of restraint; as long as it was Sherlock’s hands on him, it didn’t matter. “Once we’re at the cottage.”

“But we might not get there until midnight,” John whined. (Was he whining? God, he hoped not, but he really wanted to try his gift soon. Now preferably).

“We might not,” Sherlock said, releasing his wrists and tugging John’s sleeves back down. “But the anticipation of the event should provide a suitable build-up.”

“I don’t _need_ any more anticipation,” John said, catching Sherlock’s hands with his own. “God, Sherlock, it’s been ages since we last played.”

“We played yesterday,” Sherlock said reasonably, leaving John with the suspicion that Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking about.

“I don’t mean the sex,” he elaborated. “Or even the power play, although that’s a major part of it. I… _I need you to hurt me._ ” The last few words came out in a rush, tripping over them in his haste to get them out, but they left behind a fire in his chest that refused to go away. He remembered the pinch of the nipple clamps; the searing heat on the skin of his buttocks as Sherlock spanked him; the pain inflicted on him without malice or violence not only because it was an integral part of what he was but also because Sherlock needed to give it to him.               

Fingers curled under his chin, encouraging him to tilt his head up from where he’d dropped it to hide his face, to hide his embarrassment over the admission. “Never be ashamed to ask for something you need,” Sherlock said, dropping his hand when John kept his head up.

“I’m not ashamed,” John said, shifting under Sherlock’s intense scrutiny. “I’m embarrassed, but I’m not ashamed.”

“The two aren’t so different,” Sherlock said quietly, rising to a standing position and urging John to do the same. “Now listen to me carefully because I am only going to say this once; if you want me to hurt you, you just need to ask me. All right?”

John nodded, relieved that Sherlock understood and was making an effort to make sure he knew it to. “I know,” he said, pushing his shoulders back from their slouch with his head held high. He should be proud of this. He _was_ proud of this. “Thank you for my gift.” Words had never felt so useless, couldn’t possibly describe the high he was feeling at that moment and yet Sherlock didn’t seem to have any trouble reading it on him.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the one corner of John’s mouth in reply and glanced at the clock on the wall before wandering off towards the kitchen, shedding his jacket as he went. “Come along, John. The Thai red curry isn’t going to make itself.” 

oOo

John stood in front of the mirror above the fireplace, adjusting the lay of the jacket on his shoulders and straightening his cuffs in preparation for their little Christmas Do. Comfortably full from the rather untraditional Christmas dinner, they had a few minutes left to make themselves presentable before their guests arrived, but John was a little too busy giving Sherlock the eye to worry about any time restraints.

The detective was his usual dashing self and the black fabric of his suit was truly a work of art when combined with Sherlock’s natural elegance. He carried the outfit beautifully and John was convinced the man had left an extra button open on his shirt just to tease him. Every time Sherlock moved, John caught glimpses of skin usually covered up; a smooth chest contrasting against the sharpness of those collar bones and John didn’t know how he was meant to keep his hands off.

But that was probably what Sherlock was aiming for.

“I must admit,” Sherlock said, coming up behind him to lay a hand on John’s shoulder, “this particular cut suits you very well. Do you know the shirt enhances your eye colour?”

John met Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror and almost flushed under the intense pride Sherlock was emanating, but it may have been down to his choice of suit rather than the way John was wearing it. Possibly both. “Does this mean you were looking into my eyes before we got together?” he teased.

Sherlock pretended to brush imaginary lint off of John’s shoulder. “Unless I have been terribly misinformed, I believe it is customary to make eye contact when addressing another person directly. Taking into consideration our living arrangements and the numerous occasions where we have been in close proximity during a case, it would have been a statistical improbability for someone as observant as myself not to see what colour your eyes are.”  

In other words, Sherlock had known all along what he was doing when he bought John’s outfit, possibly wanting to show off to the other Doms that he knew how to dress his sub better than they did, but John didn’t think it was deliberate in any other way. Sherlock wasn’t a man to side step awkwardness, preferring to dive headfirst into it, so, if he had harboured any feelings towards John in that way beforehand, he would have very likely made it clear to John from the start. “I always knew you had a romantic streak in you,” John said, catching the hand on his shoulder and pressing a kiss into Sherlock’s thumb joint.

Sherlock turned the action on him, using that same hand to curl his fingers under John’s chin. “If by romantic, you mean ensuring your continued sexual availability as and when I desire it, then yes, I would be inclined to agree with you.”

God, the man really was insatiable. John felt like he was being given a run for his money or like his own reputation was at stake, which was utter nonsense because this was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He’d been looking for a partner whose appetite could be as voracious as his own; he just hadn’t expected to ever find them. “I’m sure I can work something out,” he murmured, leaning towards Sherlock to lick at the hollow of Sherlock’s throat.

The bitten off groan Sherlock made was music to John’s ears, a pooling in his stomach signalling his body’s first tentative steps towards arousal, but now wasn’t the time. As if on cue, the front door rapped three times and Mrs Hudson’s bustling footsteps could be heard up the stairs as she went to answer it, the voices of well-wishing and Christmas cheer echoing through the flat’s open door.

Sherlock grimaced at the noise and John was hard-pressed not to match it, but this was more than an obligation to host a party after they’d already agreed to it earlier in the year. This was a gathering of friends to celebrate the season and John prized himself on his ability to keep his friends happy, keeping in touch with his old army buddies via email and the occasional rugby match after work long after he left the armed forces. So a last minute cancellation because he wanted to spend the next week shagging Sherlock’s brains out was out of the question; no matter how desired it was on their side.

The noises downstairs gradually became louder as the group moved towards Mrs Hudson’s flat; she was giving out drinks and nibbles before preparing to move upstairs, so they had two minutes alone before they had to separate. John tugged Sherlock close, breathing in the scent of his aftershave when a wicked idea sprang to mind. He pushed up onto his toes so he could reach Sherlock’s left ear, bringing his lips as close as possible so Sherlock would hear every single word. “If you behave yourself today, I’ll blow you in the car on the way to Sussex.”

Sherlock made a noise that was almost inhuman, a cross between a snarl and a growl, before pulling back and crushing his lips against John’s. It was a brief moment of hard, possessive nips and dominating tongues until John realised they were desperately clutching at each other, hands buried in hair and twisting this way and that, trying to force each other into submission. Christ, it felt so good to finally give as much as he was getting, pulling Sherlock’s hair just to feel him gasp against John’s mouth and surge against his body. Only the sound of a single set of footsteps on the stairs was enough to force them apart, breaking away harshly and panting as they each fought to gain control of themselves.

John headed straight to the kitchen, vaguely hearing the sound of Sherlock opening his violin case as he ran the cold tap to splash water on his face. When he turned around, Sherlock didn’t look the tinniest bit ruffled to the untrained eye, but John could clearly see where his fingers had dishevelled Sherlock’s curls and he knew that one other person would definitely see it as well.

Speak of the devil…

“Sod off, Mycroft.”

The raised eyebrow Mycroft gave Sherlock at that little remark didn’t surprise John in the slightest. “I see the merriment of the holiday season hasn’t affected you at all,” Mycroft said, twisting the tip of his umbrella into the carpet. “I’m relieved, quite frankly. God knows what would happen if you suddenly considered being an appropriate human being for once; the world would be a considerably duller place, no doubt.”

Sherlock chose not to respond verbally, drawing the bow across the strings of his violin sharply to create a grating, scratching whine. John winced, often worried about the Strad’s mistreatment at Sherlock’s hands when in one of his moods; Mycroft never failed to send Sherlock straight into one.

“As much as you know I enjoy your company,” Mycroft said, speaking in the breaks in Sherlock’s playing, “I am only here to give you this.” In his right hand there was an envelope which he passed to John when Sherlock made no move to take it.

“Thank you,” John said. They didn’t need to worry about Mycroft’s gift; that had been specially delivered to Sherlock’s brother a week ago, courtesy of Sherlock’s own credit card. Not that Sherlock knew about that.

Opening the envelope, John was surprised to see just two black cards inside. Much like a credit card, each one had a beautiful design on it along with their names and some numbers. Membership cards of some kind but, in the absence of a name, John had no idea what they were for.

“What are you playing at, Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice was sharp, his violin forgotten on his shoulder. His eyes were fixed on the cards in John’s hands.

“Merely ensuring my brother’s continued happiness and that of his partner,” Mycroft replied, putting one hand in a trouser pocket while he leant on his umbrella with the other. “These cards entitle the both of you with unlimited VIP access to the club you infiltrated on the second of December.”             

John felt his mouth drop open; the second of December was the start of ‘The Forced Submissives’ case, the night John discovered his BDSM kink. Torn between the fact that Mycroft knew about them and the one where Mycroft knew what the basis of their relationship was, John settled for a mixture of the two, staring at Sherlock’s brother with bewilderment.

“Life is rarely so generous that it grants you every unspoken wish,” Mycroft explained. “Think of this as an extension of that generosity.”

“What makes you think we’ll even use them?” Sherlock said, walking over to John to inspect the cards more closely.

“You may dispose of them in any way you see fit, should you make that decision,” Mycroft replied, and suddenly John couldn’t imagine anything worse.

John’s mind swiftly turned inward, picturing the faces of Will and Eric and the compassion they’d shown him when he was left floundering in the dark, unable to see and unsure what it was he wanted. To have unlimited access to that, to the two people who understood what he had with Sherlock and had their own relationship, their own lifestyle… The possibilities seemed endless. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him in his peripheral vision and he let all his gratitude show on his face for Sherlock to see. It wasn’t that John thought they needed help with their exploration of each other, least of all from Mycroft, but these cards were more than they appeared. They wouldn’t help them grow as a couple, but maybe they could be an asset to that same end. Whatever Sherlock saw was enough for the detective to calm his ire at Mycroft’s presumptuousness, huffing and twirling away to resume his playing.

It was also enough for Mycroft, recognising a dismissal from Sherlock for what it was. “I have asked for your guests to wait two more minutes after I leave,” he said, turning towards the door. “To give you both time to compose yourselves.”

John watched Mycroft’s departure with wide eyes, the cards in his hands feeling like lead weights even after the other man had left. Sherlock had yet to resume his playing, his silhouette defined against the afternoon light, and a deep pang of _something_ echoed in John’s ribcage, making it a little harder to breathe. He remembered Will’s and Eric’s show to the last moment, imagining himself in Eric’s place and wishing for a split second that he could have been there instead with Sherlock standing over him, flushed with exertion as he expertly wielded a flogger or crop onto John’s back, arse and thighs. It hadn’t even been on his radar, the idea had seemed so far-fetched that he barely considered it. Now though…

“Do you want to keep them?”

Sherlock’s voice wasn’t resigned. Just inquisitive, as if he was also considering the possibilities now open to them. What would Sherlock do to him, what would they do to each other having been given this new freedom?

John wrapped his fingers around the cards, already memorising the feel of the numbers against his skin. “Yes.” He didn’t think he’d ever let them go.

Sherlock turned towards him, lowering his violin and taking in John’s expression, his eyes glimmering against the light from the window. “Then we’d best prepare for that eventuality.” John watched as Sherlock put his violin down and walked to the kitchen, pulling out two tumblers and opening the bottle of sherry bought for the party, pouring small measures into each glass. Without missing a beat, the bottle was re-stoppered and the glasses taken back into the living room, one pushed into John’s free hand with Sherlock keeping the other poised in front of his face. “To the fulfilment of unspoken wishes,” Sherlock said.

On the table close to the windows, the oak box containing John’s presents hadn’t moved since Sherlock had placed it there earlier in the day. John couldn’t speak around the lump in his throat, could barely swallow the sherry after they’d clinked glasses, but the burn from the alcohol was potent; made all the more sharp by the promise in Sherlock’s voice and reinforced by the gift from his Dom.

To unspoken wishes indeed.

 _To be continued_   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If you'd like to see what John's new present looks like, please see this link:
> 
> http://www.leatheretc.com/fetish/5539-40Blk_Cuffs.html
> 
> (Almost wish I had a pair... *sigh*)
> 
> Wanna chat? (^^) feel free to contact me on: darkangelsjohnlockfall@gmail.com


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: *flowers and chocolates and hugs for you all because you’re bloody amazing!*
> 
> Seriously, guys, I love you all to pieces, the support you have for this story is just brilliant! Thank you so much for sticking with me! 
> 
> I’d like to say a special thank you to my beta, sherlockfan, who has helped me through the writer’s block and the frustration and literally helped me piece together this chapter in my head! *hugs*
> 
> Enjoy, my lovelies! Xxx

The alcohol was still burning its way through John’s system when Sherlock put his glass on the coffee table and walked to the desk, stroking a hand lightly over John’s present before picking it up and taking it to their bedroom. John watched through wide eyes, grateful for Sherlock’s forethought as at least two members of their party were inquisitive souls and the contents of said box would have fed the rumour mill for months.

There was a distinct shuffling sound (apparently Sherlock was putting the box away) before the detective returned, picking up his empty glass along with John’s and taking them into the kitchen. John followed, leaning against the door frame as he watched Sherlock place the glasses in the sink, ready to be washed up later, and the act was so domestic and _normal_ that it literally threw him for a second. Sherlock never did the washing up, but, thanks to John’s gentle persuasion, he almost always put used items in the kitchen after they’d finished and the thought was clear enough that it cut through his haze of ‘what the hell just happened’, allowing him to at least try and balance the chaos in his head.

Mycroft knew.

That seemed like the most important thing right now. The head of the British Government knew John was in a relationship with his younger brother and, more to the point, knew what the basis of the relationship was.

John was pretty sure that the most logical and sane response would have been for Mycroft to demand the end of said relationship and escort John as far from Sherlock as possible, but Sherlock’s brother always seemed to be the exception to the rule.

He looked down at the cards clasped in his left hand, still unsure of what to feel, when Sherlock stopped in front of him and took John’s hands in his own.

“All right?” Sherlock asked.

A cheer of voices echoed up the stairwell and into the flat, the sounds of laughter an insistent reminder that they didn’t have long. John took one last look at the cards before pulling his hands from Sherlock’s and putting them in his trouser pocket, knowing that he really should put them away but unwilling to part with them just yet. “Yeah, I’m good.”

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. There was a distinctive rolling in his stomach that only intensified when he thought about Mycroft’s gift and the implications of it, but there was too much going on for him to work it out now.

Sherlock lifted a hand to John’s face, cupping one cheek and prompting him to look up from where he’d been staring at the opening of Sherlock’s shirt. “We can discuss it later,” Sherlock said, stroking his thumb along the arch of John’s cheekbone.

John nodded and exhaled his tension in a deep puff, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s wrist where it was exposed near the cuff of Sherlock’s shirt. “C’mere,” he said, wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s hips to pull the detective closer so he could nuzzle into the pale neck in front of him. Sherlock’s hand moved and fingers threaded their way through the hair at the nape of John’s neck, lightly stroking as his other hand curled around the small of John’s back underneath his jacket. Gently, with a barely-there pressure, lips pressed into John’s temple in quiet, tender kisses that made his spine tingle.

The sound of feet on the stairs should have prompted them to pull apart; for Sherlock to pick up his violin and play a jaunty Christmas tune while John poured the drinks, but neither of them made a move to do so. “John?” Sherlock’s voice was a quiet murmur, not at all worried, just questioning. Were they ready for this? Their relationship was still new (they’d been together for less than a month), but it felt like so much longer than that. They moved seamlessly around each other, able to anticipate each other’s habits after months of cohabitation, so the shift from friends to lovers hadn’t really been a huge leap for them to make considering everything that had happened between them.

And John had meant it when he said he wasn’t ashamed. Yeah, he was a little embarrassed over his pain kink, but that was only because he’d never thought of himself as someone who’d be into that and the association was still new enough that he’d yet to explore it to its full potential, but it didn’t mean he was embarrassed or ashamed of his connection to Sherlock. He wasn’t even worried about labelling his sexuality anymore because he’d come to realise that it didn’t actually matter; gay or not, he was happier with Sherlock than he could ever remember being with anyone else and he wasn’t going to let a label get in the way of that.

He chose not to respond to Sherlock’s question verbally; instead he tightened his hold around Sherlock and pressed close, relaxing when he felt Sherlock smile against his skin and return the embrace, tucking his face close to John’s to better share their intimacy.

In hindsight, they couldn’t have chosen a better position to show the change in their relationship to their friends. John still had his face hidden and Sherlock had subtly turned them away from the door, giving them the illusion of privacy when Greg, Mrs Hudson and Molly came into the flat. John almost huffed a laugh when a shocked silence settled over everyone, but he stifled it at the last moment. Sherlock continued to stroke his fingers though John’s hair and John knew without looking that Sherlock had closed his eyes, savouring their closeness.

An awkward clearing of a throat prompted them to pull apart, Greg’s doing, but not before Sherlock took John’s mouth in a kiss, just a sweet press of lips which was at once gentle, chaste and completely _appropriate_.

The action caused a sudden spike of possessiveness that shot through John at Sherlock’s behaviour, struck with an intense urge to stake his claim. He wanted to pin Sherlock to the closest surface and make it very clear to present company that the detective was off limits, something which Sherlock’s small kiss had only inflamed. _Appropriate_ wasn’t something that appeared in Sherlock’s vocabulary and John didn’t think it was fair to give anyone the wrong idea as he tightened his hold on Sherlock’s jacket and surged up, pushing his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth with very little preamble.

Sherlock’s resulting groan could’ve made the earth tremble beneath John’s feet when his snog was reciprocated and even Mrs Hudson’s excited tittering could barely be heard above the sound of their mouths eagerly moving against each other. Sherlock tasted of the sherry they’d both had, a reminder of their toast and the promise of things to come, and John didn’t try to resist the arousal that flooded through him, tangling a hand in Sherlock’s curls and just about stopping himself from trying to rut against Sherlock’s hip in blatant need.

“Jesus Christ, pack it in!” Lestrade said, but the DI was grinning when they finally separated, flushed and unable to keep the smiles off their faces.

“Oh, leave them be!” Mrs Hudson scolded Lestrade, easily walking past John and Sherlock to start serving the wine, placing the bottle and some glasses on a tray. “This is tame compared to what I’ve been overhearing so I wouldn’t let it worry you, dear.”

John was sure he hadn’t been blushing before, but was certain that he was now, feeling the tips of his ears flush with colour but unable to stop grinning despite it. “Err, yes, sorry-,” he began, but Sherlock smoothly interrupted his attempt at an apology.

“No, you’ve been eavesdropping. There is a difference.” Sherlock’s look was smug and their land lady didn’t even try to deny it.

“You boys seem to forget that I was your age once,” she said, matching Sherlock toe to toe with her own devilish smirk. “Although things have been steadily getting more _rhythmic_ this past week. Honestly, Sherlock, would it be that much of a bother to put a pillow above the headboard? I’m worried about the state of my wall.”   

“All right!” Greg declared, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Enough, the lot of you! The less said about _that,_ the better.”

“Which bit?” Sherlock queried, raising an eyebrow at the DI. “Mrs Hudson’s sex history or our sex present?” and Molly burst into a fit of nervous giggles, hiding her face in her scarf.      

For a moment John was worried that Lestrade was going to break something; the look on his face was an amusing mix of wishing the floor would swallow him whole and congratulations for them both, but somehow he managed to pull through it, shaking his head at Sherlock as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a card for them to take. “Congratulations, you daft buggers,” he said, giving John and Sherlock both a firm handshake. “Now,” he said, looking around the flat with his hands clasped in front of him. “Where’s the booze? Is there enough to help me erase the last two minutes from my memory?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Sherlock said, side-stepping the DI and going into the kitchen. “Given your alcohol tolerance, there is more than enough to aid you in that endeavour.”

“Cheeky!” Lestrade said, coming to stand by John’s side as Mrs Hudson helped Sherlock pour the drinks. He tilted his head close to John’s and crossed his arms across his chest, eyes watching Sherlock. “So now that you guys are…” he began in a low voice and motioned towards Sherlock. “You know…”

“Shagging,” John supplied helpfully, noting how Sherlock was using a brand of non-alcoholic wine in two glasses; smart choice considering all the driving they were going to be doing later.   

Lestrade didn’t even wince. “Yes, that. Any chance of you being able to… I don’t know; bring him to heel, on occasion?”

John snorted, earning an amused glance from Sherlock in his direction from under his fringe, one that quickly turned heated the longer the contact was held. “I’m not sure about that,” John said, voice low as Sherlock winked at him and then handed Molly a glass of wine with a small peck on her cheek. “Depends how much of a dick he feels like being on the day, I suppose.”

“Oh of course,” Lestrade said, smirking. “Still, if you don’t ask, you don’t get.”

“Not true,” John said, thinking of the box currently stored safely away in their bedroom. “Sometimes the best things happen when you don’t even need to ask for them.”

oOo

After the rather unconventional way they’d announced their relationship to their friends, the initial burst of congratulations and not-so-subtle hints of relieving some of that sexual tension, the afternoon passed with barely a hitch and a speed that left John’s head spinning.

Safely ensconced in the black Audi Q7 that Sherlock had specially hired for their trip away, John finally allowed himself the quiet chuckle he’d been suppressing all evening, still unable to believe the ease with which key moments in their relationship were being passed. In the last six hours they’d had what could be classed as an official blessing from Mycroft and had similar positive reactions from their friends, again met with staunch approval and well wishes for the change in their lives.

To be fair, John hadn’t expected any less from Greg, Molly or Mrs Hudson because all three of them had suspected it from the very beginning, but it still wasn’t something to be taken for granted; they really did have amazing friends and it felt brilliant that they could be open and honest with the people that mattered the most. Purely from his end, of course; Sherlock’s thoughts regarding their guests reactions were still his own, but the detective wouldn’t have instigated the whole thing if he wasn’t happy with the others knowing in the first place.

And now they were on their way to Sussex, braving the snow and ice with a week’s worth of supplies (clothing mostly), plus John’s present and a large duffel bag which Sherlock had given him strict instructions not to touch. Curiosity was an evil thing, but John had always been an excellent soldier and obeyed the order without question; he had merely watched as Sherlock put the bag into the boot of the car first before the rest of their luggage followed.

Although the main roads leading to West Sussex had been cleared of snow, the back roads were still treacherous and John was more than a little impressed with Sherlock’s driving by the time they made it to the cottage. It reminded John of his earlier words to Sherlock; that, if the detective behaved himself at the party, John would suck him off in the car on the way, but the weather was bad enough that John couldn’t see the whole event ending without them landing in a ditch somewhere. Still, even with Sherlock’s excellent driving, it took more than two hours for them to reach their destination and the place was in pitch darkness with only the headlamps of the car allowing them to see the front entrance when they finally arrived.

The snow was falling thick and fast when John pushed his door open, his shoes disappearing into the snow which was well above his ankles. Sherlock was quick to open the front door ahead of him, ushering John inside as the detective paused to switch the lights on. John stayed close to the front entrance, toeing off his shoes and shaking the snow from his coat so he didn’t get drops all over the floor. The lights flickering overhead made him wince after the prolonged darkness of the outside world, but when his vision finally cleared, he was flabbergasted at what he saw.  

It was obviously the living room (the sofas, generous with matching cushions, and the huge fireplace left little doubt) but the opulence of the furnishings were definitely above his yearly pay packet. The room was beautiful in its simplicity, uncluttered despite the space available and John was almost immediately drawn to the art hanging on the walls, wondering whether they were originals as he got closer to them. He was particularly interested in the one which showed a black horse’s head and neck, a portrait of an animal that had a depth in its eyes which he’d rarely seen in similar pieces.

The animal’s mane was long and had a distinctive wave to it, like the wind had just breezed through it; whoever had painted it had obviously known the animal, for there was a feeling of something to be cherished about the whole piece, like each stroke of the brush had been something to savour. There would never be another horse like this and John instinctively knew that there wouldn’t be another canvas like it; they were both the only ones in the world.     

“Do you like her?”

John turned back to see Sherlock leaning against the closed door, thumbs in his pockets. “Yes,” he said immediately, looking at the art again just to see the expressiveness in her eyes. “She’s beautiful.”

Sherlock came to stand beside John, his look fond as he regarded the canvas. “She was called Minerva,” he said and his tone bellied the obvious respect he had for her. “A favourite of my mother’s from a long line of Andalusian mares, hence the portrait.” John peered closely at the canvas, spotting the elegant signature in the bottom left-hand corner; a simple ‘MH’. “Minerva passed away when I was twenty-one,” Sherlock went on and John nodded, feeling a new appreciation for a horse he’d never meet.

“Do you miss her?”

Sherlock’s eyes became distant and it left John wondering how much Minerva’s passing had affected Sherlock personally. “It took more time than expected to become accustomed to her absence,” Sherlock said finally, “but her lineage is alive and well; her son and grandson are in the stables at the back of estate. My mother has workers who care for the horses when my family is away.”

Wait, did Sherlock just say _estate?_ John didn’t get a good look at the property outside, but it didn’t seem large enough to warrant the description Sherlock had given it; then again, considering Sherlock’s dislike of the ‘sensationalist’ way John wrote his blog, the detective clearly had no tolerance for embellishing his own words. “I didn’t know your family kept horses,” John said instead and smiled when Sherlock just quirked an eyebrow at him. “I’d love to see them.”

“Yes, in the morning,” Sherlock agreed, stepping closer to John so he could wrap an arm around his waist. “Once we’re both settled in. I must admit that I have other things on my mind at the moment.”              

Sherlock’s hands moved, grasping John’s biceps and turning him so he could be pressed against a bare patch of wall.  “Shouldn’t we get the bags?” John said, closing his eyes as Sherlock pressed kisses against the line of his jaw and thinking that someone really ought to be practical in all this before they completely lost themselves in each other.

“They’ll keep,” Sherlock said, taking John’s ear lobe between his teeth and nipping at it.

John gasped as the sting from Sherlock’s attentions pooled low in his belly and suddenly getting the bags was the last thing on his mind. “So what do you propose?” he asked, tilting his head to the side as Sherlock’s lips dragged down his neck so those teeth could sink into his jugular, making him jerk against Sherlock’s body.

“I’d rather had the idea that we could skip the pleasantries,” Sherlock said, drawing back so he could worm a hand between them,  nimble fingers moving to the belt and buckle of John’s trousers and undoing them with practised ease.

John groaned when chilled fingers (Sherlock must’ve forgotten his gloves) teased at the waistband of his boxers, stroking across his abdomen and slipping in to cup his groin through the fabric. The initial sharp burst of cold made John’s body slow to react but Sherlock, clever man that he was, still found all the right ways of getting John’s cock to respond, fingers squeezing his hardening length in encouragement.

Wanting to reciprocate, John leaned back against the wall so he could use his hands, reaching forward to start working on the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, only to have Sherlock take a hold of his wrists and pin them up beside his head. “Sherlock?”

“Ssshhh, “ Sherlock whispered, pressing dry, slightly chapped lips to John’s. “Stay still for me.”

John eagerly kissed back while Sherlock was still close, licking at Sherlock’s lips with the tip of a wet tongue to help moisten them. “Whatever you want,” he said softly, tilting his head back and to the side in a historic act of complete and utter surrender. “I’m yours.”

Sherlock gladly took him up on it, sucking at the skin of John’s neck high above his shirt collar with the obvious intent of leaving what was bound to be a gloriously dark mark. The first of many if John was going to have his way. He wanted to be able to look at himself in the mirror by the end of this week and see the evidence of Sherlock’s desire all over his body; wanted to bask himself stupid in such an indulgence if Sherlock were inclined to let him.

Although John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock wanted photographic evidence of such a claiming, just so he could try and better the results at a later date.

The hands John was starting to ache for didn’t stay in one position for very long; Sherlock slid them down the front of John’s body, thumbs teasing at his nipples for a brief moment before reaching his trousers, pushing them past his hips and allowing them to catch around his thighs. John fought back a whimper when fingers pulled at his boxers, allowing his erection to uncurl from the fabric as Sherlock pushed his underwear down to tangle with his trousers. With his manhood on prominent display, John very quickly realised that the air around them was chilly, but the heat of Sherlock’s hands enclosed him, shielding his cock from its bite.

Sherlock chuckled when John’s body tried to thrust into the grip surrounding him, using a hand to pin John’s hips to the wall. “Eager, aren’t we.”

John grinned, shrugging when Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s chuffing cold.”     

“Hmmm, yes, it is rather,” Sherlock agreed, that trademark smirk crossing his face before it morphed into gentle amusement. His hand curled around the head of John’s cock, thumb teasing at the slit as long fingers pulled his foreskin back to leave him completely exposed. The sensation was so exquisite that John very nearly missed the next thing Sherlock said. “Perfect for a nice long soak, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sherlock chose that exact moment to create a tight sheath with his fingers and thumb, stroking John with a twisting, corkscrew motion that made John’s thighs tremble. Combined with the hot presses of Sherlock’s mouth to his face and jaw and generally feeling like he was being smothered in horny consulting detective, it took John a bit longer to understand what the hell Sherlock was talking about, and another second or two to completely agree with him. Snow was lovely and all, but the boiler back at the flat was temperamental at the best of times and having to regulate hot water usage between two very hygienic men (body-wise in Sherlock’s case) wasn’t John’s idea of a good time. This though…

There was only one thing that immediately came to mind and he was sure Sherlock would agree with his line of questioning: “Is this soak big enough for two?”

“Exceedingly,” Sherlock said, pressing John back against the wall again so he could capture John’s smile in a kiss, giving John’s erection another long, slow tug that made John groan before pulling John’s clothes up his legs so he could follow Sherlock upstairs to the bathroom.

Contrary to John’s initial assessment of the place, the cottage was huge. In total there were four bedrooms that he could see nearest to the bathroom, but that didn’t include the two in the guest house (Sherlock’s explanation when he saw the disbelief on John’s face) or the full extent of the grounds. John almost shook his head when he thought about all this _space_ , barely remembering to keep up his own pace as Sherlock made a beeline for the master suite, a thoroughly impressed blogger trailing along in his wake.

As was the case with the living room, the master bedroom was sparse in furnishings but the quality overrode the need for any sort of quantity. The bed looked so open and inviting; with a large throw-over to keep the dust off of the sheets and cushions, but Sherlock didn’t even glance at it. He opened another door immediately across from the bed and John realised that they had direct access to the bathroom which was just as large as the master bedroom.

It wasn’t the exception to the rule he’d seen so far, but there was a generous assortment of soaps, shampoos, body oils, bath salts and, as promised, the tub was definitely big enough for two. It sat in the middle of the room as though it was the main attraction and John supposed it really was in a way; especially when Sherlock began to run the hot water and turned back to him, his eyes sweeping the entirety of John’s body and lingering on his still open trousers.

Neither of them spoke, not even when the bath had finished filling, the faint drip of residual water the only sound in the room. John could see the steam coming off the water and he felt the skin on his arms break out in goose-bumps; so close to the promising warmth, his body was quick to remind him of the cold which still clung to his fingertips, making him itch to rub at them between the palms of his hands.

Without a word, Sherlock began to remove his clothes, taking off his jacket and shirt to place them on a nearby chair. No effort was being made to turn this into a striptease, but the act was still arousing for John either way. As each inch of skin was revealed, he felt his mouth water in reaction; he wanted to feel Sherlock’s body against his, wanted to seek out all the places where the cold lingered so he could warm them with gusts of hot air and gentle suction.              

As Sherlock continued, John began to wonder whether he should follow Sherlock’s example; the detective hadn’t implicitly asked him to remove his own clothes, something which should have been obvious really because they were about to have a bath together, but Sherlock had yet to break eye contact with him. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence, but the circumstances vastly dictated how John should proceed, and he’d yet to figure out what it was Sherlock wanted.

He watched as Sherlock undid his own trousers and slid them down those pale, oh-so-long legs, but when he decided it was time to join his lover in a similar state of undress, Sherlock reached forward and stopped him, pressing his fingers into the button he was about to undo. He looked up from his fingers to meet Sherlock’s eyes, about to question the action, but stopped when he saw the look on Sherlock’s face. He didn’t know what emotion Sherlock was feeling at that point, it was so hard to tell, but John immediately knew what that face meant. He’d seen it often enough at crime scenes when Sherlock almost paraded his brilliance in front of the police force, all the while smirking at John out of the corner of his eye. _Look at me, John. Look how brilliant I am._

This wasn’t the same.

John shut his mouth against the question he wanted to ask, letting his hands drift back down to his sides. Once Sherlock saw that the message had been received, if not completely understood, he resumed undressing. All items of clothing were laid across the same chair until Sherlock was completely naked, his arms and hands relaxed at his sides, his back straight without posturing and his feet positioned to evenly distribute his weight. He didn’t take his eyes off of John the whole time.

Having never been put into a position where he wasn’t distracted by his own nudity around the detective, John took his fill of Sherlock’s body, taking full advantage of it whilst also being mindful of what was being offered here. He could see the muscles Sherlock had, not as defined as John’s from his army days, but still strong. Chasing criminals down dark alleys certainly helped Sherlock keep fit, but John had walked in on the man doing muscle toning exercises more than once to keep himself in shape and he was more than happy with the result of all that hard work. His fingers itched with remembered sensations; running his hands down the length of Sherlock’s back to cup his buttocks, feeling the muscles flex and clench as Sherlock used his body to bring them both to the peak of pleasure.       

Sherlock was watching John with eyes that were no doubt making deductions of their own, but months of practise gave John the advantage of desensitisation; he very rarely found himself squirming under that penetrative stare, often allowing himself to ignore the other man completely in certain cases (such as when Sherlock was in one of his sulks), but this wasn’t one of those times.

He stepped towards Sherlock instead, lifting a hand to brush Sherlock’s curls from his forehead before cupping his face to stroke a thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock’s eyes drifted to half-mast when John allowed that thumb to go lower, feeling the plushness of Sherlock’s lower lip, the fullness of it, before releasing a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding when Sherlock opened his mouth to catch John’s thumb between his teeth. Held in place, Sherlock’s tongue swirled around the tip, lips pursing around it as that tongue coaxed John’s thumb to go deeper.

The eroticism of the act felt just like warm honey; it slid through John’s body at a speed that allowed him to savour the slow surge of desire rather than being overwhelmed by it, and he was instantly transported back to the Yard when Sherlock began to suck on his thumb.

Sure, he hadn’t been completely aware of his surroundings at the time, having been on the receiving end of a fantastic fuck, so it was only natural that his memory of the equally fantastic blowjob was not as sharp as he would’ve liked, but Sherlock was quickly reminding him. Sherlock took John’s thumb deeper into his mouth, pressing his tongue into the base of it as he applied a gentle suction, letting his lips wrap around the digit in a perfect O.

With Sherlock sucking on his thumb like that, it was a wonder that John didn’t skip everything he wanted to do, but he knew he wanted to savour this. He withdrew his thumb, gasping a little when Sherlock allowed his teeth to graze the tip, before he pressed it down on Sherlock’s lower lip, smearing the detective’s own saliva into it with a broad sweep. His left hand stroked down Sherlock’s neck, pressing into the hollow of his throat gently before drawing across his chest, pausing at Sherlock’s right nipple and teasing it into hardness.

Remembering how sensitive Sherlock’s nipples were, John was gentle about it, only plucking at it once he was sure Sherlock’s body was well into the sensation. Once Sherlock’s eyes started to slide shut, his nipple rosy and peaked, John leant forward and swiped his tongue across it, using the flat of his tongue to draw the contact out until he was flicking at the little nub with the tip of his tongue.

He felt the way Sherlock’s body shuddered in front of him, felt the rocking of Sherlock’s hips under his fingers when he placed his left hand over Sherlock’s hipbone. Knew without looking that Sherlock was hard, his erection straining for more sensation at even the slightest touch to his nipple, jerking in response when John lightly took that same nipple between his teeth and worried at it until Sherlock hissed between his teeth.

Sherlock half-moaned, half-growled with what John hoped was pleasure when he finally gave Sherlock’s body a reprieve, drawing away from Sherlock’s chest and appreciatively taking in the way Sherlock’s nipple looked; a beautiful shade of pink and standing to attention, responsive as John blew warm air across it, making it tighten again.

Without any prompting, he slowly sank to his knees, mouthing kisses down Sherlock’s abdomen and across his hips before settling into position, pressing his face into one of Sherlock’s inner thighs and licking at the warm flesh. Sherlock spread his legs fractionally, giving John more room to work with, and John happily obliged, nuzzling his way into the crease where thigh met groin and nipping at it playfully between his teeth. Sherlock panted above him, his hands flexing when John glanced at them, but they didn’t tangle their way into John’s hair, didn’t try to guide John’s ministrations to the areas which no doubt felt like they needed it the most, and John realised just how much control he was being given here.  

How much Sherlock was possibly offering him.

Despite the flood of hormones in his body and the light-headedness which came with the surge of power he was experiencing, John forced himself to take it slow. He didn’t try to stop the sounds he was making, his moans muffled in between Sherlock’s legs as he devoted himself to his task, licking and sucking at Sherlock’s inner thighs until the detective was trembling. Only then did he change tack, wetting his tongue with saliva and licking at one of Sherlock’s balls.

“ _God,_ John…”

The first words since Sherlock had undressed himself and perfectly apt in John’s opinion. He certainly felt like a god at this present moment. He hadn’t realised how much power he actually had at his fingertips by being with Sherlock this way; how the line dividing who had control became blurred and distorted because of the very nature of the act he was committing. Going to his knees felt like the action of a person who was submissive, like someone who was giving up their control to be at the whim of the person they were kneeling in front of.

Now, with Sherlock shaking and gasping above him at the slightest touch, it seemed the reins had changed hands, if only for a little while.

Body thrumming with anticipation, John licked across Sherlock’s testicles again, feeling the way they contracted beneath his tongue. He pressed close, using his lips to suck and pull at the taut skin before pausing, blowing cool air across them just to hear Sherlock’s breath hitch.    

When John pulled back for another break, Sherlock’s erection was at full mast. It was already flushed at the tip, the foreskin fully retracted and exposing the swollen head, clear fluid beginning to leak from the slit. The mere sight of Sherlock’s arousal caused a similar, visceral reaction in John’s own body and he groaned, leaning forward again to lick across the slit.

Sharp and briny, John used the tip of his tongue to tease under the glans as more of Sherlock’s pre-come oozed out, and he couldn’t resist pursing his lips around the flared head to he could lightly suckle on it. Once his lips met the ridge which separated the head from the shaft, John looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes, keeping up the suction as he slowly inched his way down Sherlock’s cock.

As before, it was a struggle to take more than half of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth so John didn’t try to exceed his personal limits; at least not yet. Instead he pulled back and shrugged off his jacket, undoing his shirt and leaving them pooled behind him so his torso was laid bare. Sherlock’s eyes were immediately drawn to John’s chest and arms and John almost shivered under the intensity of Sherlock’s stare, knowing down to the slightest detail what he wanted to happen next.

He closed his eyes again, taking Sherlock’s erection between his lips as he crossed his wrists in front of him.

It had been a while since he’d last taken this position, but he remembered it with explicit detail. Obviously he’d been completely naked at the time, kneeling in front of Sherlock’s chair with a blazing fire warming his skin, but the effect was still the same regardless of his state of dress. He held his wrists together as though they’d been tied, feeling the ache in them as the utter subservience of the position coursed through him, moaning around Sherlock’s cock as he surrendered himself to it. 

Only now did Sherlock’s hands move, tangling their way through John’s hair to stroke across his scalp as John moved his head back and forth along Sherlock’s cock, setting the rhythm he knew Sherlock enjoyed. Sherlock was vocal in his enjoyment, groaning wordless vowels as John became bolder, allowing the head of Sherlock’s cock to stray close to the back of his throat without touching it, his eyes beginning to water when he unintentionally went in too deep. He honestly didn’t know how Sherlock had managed it back at the Yard, the whole deep-throating thing, but he knew he wanted to see how far he could take it. 

Unbidden, his gag reflex came into action when he pushed himself too far, the muscles clamping around the tip of Sherlock’s erection before forcing John to withdraw, but the noise Sherlock made when the opening of John’s throat tightened on his cock was worth the discomfort in John’s opinion. Looking up, Sherlock seemed just as debauched as John was feeling, the steam from the bath dampening his curls so they hung around his eyes, his lower lip a rosy hue from where Sherlock had clearly been biting into it.

The lip biting had John yearning to try again, to see if he could start trying to tame his gag reflex so he could take Sherlock deeper, but his knees very quickly debased him of that notion, letting him know of their discomfort with a violent ache that clenched its way into his thighs and calves.

“Ow!” Okay, that wasn’t quite as eloquent as he’d been hoping, but tile floors were really unforgiving and his knees weren’t the spritely young things they’d been in his twenties.

Sherlock chuckled at John’s exclamation, crouching down in front of him and easing his arms around John’s torso to help him to his feet. It was an ungainly business, but they were both smiling when John finally found his feet, arms wrapped securely around each other. The kissing was inevitable at this point, Sherlock boldly licking his way into John’s mouth as John relaxed into Sherlock’s grip, basking in the subtle domination as Sherlock sought to devour him.      

“Your turn,” Sherlock murmured, smirking as he stripped John of his remaining clothes and pushed them to one side before going to his knees, licking a broad stripe along the large vein of John’s erection before guiding it between his lips.

“Oh fuck,” John whispered, barely remembering to lock his knees so his legs wouldn’t collapse when Sherlock moaned around him, bobbing his head around the tip before sliding down, letting John feel the nudge at the back of his throat.

Once.

Twice.

A third time, keeping John’s cock down as the opening of Sherlock’s throat enclosed the tip and then he was swallowing around the head, once, twice, before withdrawing so Sherlock could breathe.

 _Fuck_ , Sherlock was good at this.     

John didn’t dare look down, not when Sherlock began to suck him down with all the dedication of a soldier under orders, giving John several long sucks from base to tip before sinking down, pressing his nose into John’s pubic bone as he took John deeper into his throat so he could swallow around him. Mostly because John knew it would be over far too quickly if he so much as glimpsed those curls bobbing on his cock and he was perilously close as it was.

Even so, the lack of any visuals didn’t detract from the exquisite, almost painful pleasure that Sherlock was inflicting on him and he found himself tugging on Sherlock’s hair, trying to let the other man know how close he was to finishing because the words lodged themselves in his throat and refused to budge.

Luckily Sherlock got the message, pulling off of John’s erection and kissing the tip, winking when John just weakly blinked at him; trying to get his thoughts back into some sort of coherency beyond how fucking good Sherlock was at blow jobs and how much he really wanted to come down Sherlock’s throat again.

“Only if you behave,” Sherlock said, his voice a little hoarse, and John felt his prick give a warning throb when he realised Sherlock’s voice sounded that way because he’d just had John’s cock down his throat.

Sherlock didn’t give him any more time to worry about his impending orgasm, rising to his feet and tugging John towards the bath, urging John ahead of him so he could lean against one end of the tub. And God, the water was amazing. The heat seemed to reach deep into the marrow of his bones, chasing away the last of the winter cold and urging tired muscles to relax and unwind. He groaned wordlessly, sinking back and stretching his legs out, feeling the give in his muscles as the water worked its magic.

The level of the water rose considerably when Sherlock followed him, but it didn’t spill over the edge, not even when Sherlock crowded close to him, pressing John back with both hands as he straddled John’s hips with room to spare. Reaching between them, Sherlock pushed his hips close to John’s and pressed their erections together, latching onto John’s throat and sucking as he curled a large hand around them both before Sherlock began to thrust.

 _‘Oh God, oh fuck, Sherlock, fuck yes…’_ John didn’t try to stop himself, meeting Sherlock’s thrusts with his own and arching his neck back against the rim of the bath, gasping when Sherlock’s teeth found the mark originally made in the living room with the sole intent of finishing what he’d started. Between them, their cocks dragged against each other, the heads brushing with each push and pull of their hips, making John mutter a curse when one stroke was particularly well timed with a twist of Sherlock’s hand on their cocks.      

Gasping, Sherlock pulled his mouth away from John’s throat, kissing the darkening skin with panting breaths before he pulled back, pressing their faces close together so they were sharing the same breath. "I have been thinking about us, John. Specifically about how I feel about us."

Breath hitching at a particularly delicious twist of Sherlock's hand, John managed to gasp, "Have you?" It almost was unheard of, to have Sherlock initiate an intimate conversation, to express sentiment. What had brought this on?

“I want to own your body, John.”

A simple sentence, quietly uttered, but absolutely devastating.

John felt his eyes close as the words slid into him, his breath stuttering in a gasp against Sherlock’s mouth. His erection felt hot and swollen in Sherlock’s hand, liable to finish at any moment, but he was brought back by the feel of Sherlock’s other hand on his face, urging him to keep his eyes open. To keep eye contact with Sherlock as the detective murmured his own dark thoughts and desires against John’s lips. 

 “I want your mind. Your will. Your thoughts. All of you.”  A twist of Sherlock’s hand again, John finding the breath in him to cry out weakly, arching under Sherlock’s body. “I look at you and I want to own you. Ravish you. Bind you down and hurt you until you’re begging and weeping for mercy. I want to do unspeakable things to you and have you thanking me for them.”

 _‘Oh God, oh God, oh fuck…’_ John could barely keep his eyes open as lust, dirty and thick, ravaged him, the vocalisation of the detective’s own wants and desires made potent by the naked hunger in every single word. In front of him, Sherlock's pupils were fully blown, the irises barely visible as his voice deepened, becoming husky and low, his face possessive as he worked them towards their climax.

“I want to fuck you senseless, mark you with my release as you look at me with tears in your eyes, reddened and bruised,” Sherlock murmured. “I want you to drown in me, John. Have no thoughts except for me, to find it difficult to breathe without me. I want to own you, John. All of you. My John, to do with as I please…” 

God, if he could, if he’d even had the capability of forming words at that point, the only one John could think of was yes. ‘ _Yes, to all of the above, anything you want, God please._ ’ His body spoke the words for him, releasing breathy cries as his hips pushed against Sherlock’s body, riding the crest of orgasm, so close to flying off the edge but needing Sherlock to order him first. To find his release purely because Sherlock wanted to see it happen and experience it with him.

“Now, John,” Sherlock gasped, his hips losing their rhythm and his hand working the both of them to completion. “Do it, come with me _now._ ”

John, as ever, was unable to deny him, his hands scratching at Sherlock’s shoulders and back as he gave himself over to release, crying out as his groin flared and throbbed with heat. Against him, Sherlock gave a full body shudder, groaning thickly as he continued to pump his hips, drawing out their orgasms for as long as he could before collapsing into John’s body, removing his hands from their twitching, oversensitive flesh and nuzzling his face into John’s neck.

The endorphins took a while to fade completely, leaving them both heavy with lassitude in the now dirty bath water, but neither of them made a move to drain it from the tub. John had probably never felt this contented before, stroking a hand through Sherlock’s curls and pressing kisses to his hairline, trying to convey his devotion and complete acceptance of anything this man wanted to do with him. Christ, he’d let Sherlock do to him what no one else dared to try.   

“I meant it, John,” Sherlock murmured, drawing John’s wandering thoughts back to him with the sleepy mumble against his neck. He continued to stroke his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, listening quietly as the detective finished his confessions. “I want it all with you. I yearn for it with the same passion and ferocity that I have for the Work.” Sherlock pushed himself up, cupping John’s face in both hands with an energy that John had never seen in the other man before. “But please don’t think for one second that I’m taking this lightly,” Sherlock said and John was surprised to feel Sherlock’s fingers trembling against his skin. “Never think for one second that I will lose sight of who you are and your reality. Never feel belittled or demeaned because I am honoured every single day that you chose to give me this.”

“Sherlock…” John didn’t know what to say, moved by Sherlock’s words and the intensity that Sherlock was radiating. This was so much more than what he’d thought initially, had never realised the depth with which Sherlock had thought about this or how he even felt about it. Christ, he hadn’t even thought to ask…    

“You need to know that you can put a stop to this at any time,” Sherlock continued. “Whatever we do, it will never change my respect and regard for you because I see you, John. I have always seen you, the real you. The Doctor, the Soldier, my best friend.  This new life that we’ve chosen to indulge in doesn’t change that. It adds another layer to our understanding of each other but we are still the same within. The same Sherlock and John, the detective and his blogger and now the Dom and his sub. Do you see?”

“God, Sherlock,” John whispered, pulling the other man to him to seize Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss, as much a promise as the words themselves. “I trust you. I always have.”

“And I you,” Sherlock murmured, meeting John’s mouth in another kiss, tender and powerful and achingly real. “Are you ready to take this further, John?”

John's mind helpfully provided the images of the candles and handcuffs in the box Sherlock had gifted to him and the large duffel bag Sherlock had forbidden him to open. He had no idea what else Sherlock had planned for their week away, but it didn’t sway his decision. “Yes, Sherlock,” John whispered with a longing that left him aching, yearning for everything Sherlock could give him and more. For everything they could share together, here, now. “God, yes.”  

_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hehehe, we're finally getting to the good bits!
> 
> Please feel free to come follow me on my Tumblr for more Johnlock goodness and updates for my works (darkangel1211.tumblr.com) or you can email me here: darkangelsjohnlockfall@gmail.com
> 
> Until next time! xxx


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: Hi everyone!
> 
> So it's been a VERY long time since I last updated this story, for which I am very sorry. In short, real life was as manic and challenging as it's ever been and I'm not going to bore you with the details, but it has been a struggle. 
> 
> Having said that, I have always had the support of my family and friends to get me through the tough times and I am eternally grateful to my beta, Sherlockfan, for her continued patience and gentle prodding to help me get this chapter written and completed. *hugs* You are amazing! 
> 
> I also want to extend my thanks to my all readers, past and present, whether or not you've left a kudos or a comment. I adore you all and thank you for your continued patience unendingly!
> 
> Please enjoy! xxx

Unlike previous years where John would usually be nursing a Boxing Day hangover, the morning brought a drowsy sensation of waking well past his normal time without any grogginess, resulting in a small murmur of appreciation as the sun gently woke him. Despite the long drive yesterday, his body didn’t ache in the slightest, although that was likely because of the relaxing bath from last night and a direct result of Sherlock’s care during the course of said bath. Feeling quite spoiled at Sherlock’s family estate, John didn’t know how he was meant to go back to 221B when their tub was half the size of the one in the next room. There was something deliciously visceral about sharing a bath with a loved one and the idea of even attempting to fit two people in the one at home was ludicrous. They’d probably both end up falling out of it.

Maybe they could take a case for Mycroft so they could afford to buy a tub for two…

Inevitably, thinking back to last night also brought back the memories before their shared bath and John felt a warm shiver as he remembered the way Sherlock had stripped for him. He’d seen Sherlock naked plenty of times before, but it didn’t lessen the intensity of it, not when Sherlock had kept eye contact with him while he’d been undressing himself. John knew he would never get tired of Sherlock’s eyes on him, of being given the detective’s undivided attention, and it often made him wonder just what the other man saw in him.

It had to be something good; Sherlock had already admitted that he’d been in relationships with other people, although he hadn’t gone into anything specific, probably deeming it as irrelevant. Not that it really mattered to John; he knew that the relationship he shared with Sherlock far outweighed any of his previous ones and he was sure it was the same for Sherlock too.

Not to mention the fact that John had never been on holiday with any of his exes, not like the one he was sharing with Sherlock now.      

It’d been a moment of sheer brilliance on the detective’s part to suggest a week away in the first place, giving them the time they needed to explore John’s pain-kink with a freedom they didn’t have at 221B. There was always the possibility of an unannounced visit by the Yard or Mrs Hudson or, God-forbid, _Mycroft_ , but this place had an air of seclusion that was impossible to find in London. That hadn’t stopped them from experimenting back at their flat and the sex was brilliant, but it still felt like something was missing. They hadn’t found the time for any scenes in-between cases, completely circumstantial given the nature of their lives, but this week was full of promise if Sherlock’s actions so far were indicative of the way they’d spend their time.

Put simply, John was dying to find out what Sherlock put in that duffel bag.

Sherlock’s instruction for him not to touch it hadn’t been lifted, but he still wondered exactly what it was Sherlock had planned for their week away. He hadn’t heard any items shift when Sherlock loaded it into the Audi; that very lack of movement giving him no clues whatsoever to work with, but he’d already decided that he didn’t even want to hazard a guess at this point. The hot wax was enough to make him sweat with anticipation on its own; he could almost feel the splash of it when it landed against his skin, could almost imagine the burn and the thrill of it, the helplessness as Sherlock ordered him to take it… 

Thoughts of the detective eventually prompted him to look across at the other side of the bed, seeing that Sherlock was already awake. His head was propped up on one elbow with a hand buried in his mess of curls and John was momentarily transfixed when he saw the sun’s light dancing over Sherlock’s skin, highlighting the shift in his muscles and making his hair gleam with streaks of auburn. He was absolutely breath-taking.

Sherlock's expression was amused rather than deductive; John wondered whether it was due to his bed hair, which had a fondness of sticking up first thing in the morning. "Good morning," Sherlock said, his mouth quirking when John just blinked sleepily at him.

“Hmmm... Good morning," John half mumbled into his pillow, closing his eyes briefly as he stretched his back out, letting out a groan when his spine clicked. “God, I needed that.”

Sherlock chuckled, the hand not supporting his head reaching across to stroke through John's hair, probably encouraging the spikes that John would need to tame later. "How do you feel?"

John paused, considering. "Good. Not awake though." He yawned as if to back up his own words, rolling onto his back so he could wipe the sleep from his eyes. 

Sherlock shuffled closer, wrapping long limbs around John’s body as he pressed his lips to the purpling bruise under John’s jaw. John groaned when the detective introduced the sharp nip of teeth, encouraging the mark to deepen in hue; it was like living with a bloody vampire. “I’m going to need a new neck if you keep that up.”

Sherlock hummed against his skin, pursing his lips around the bruise and sucking; the area throbbed anew beneath Sherlock’s care and John’s morning wood, which hadn’t been particularly demanding up until that point, flared with need. “Jesus, Sherlock…”

One of Sherlock’s hands moved as the detective continued his ministrations, sliding up the side of John’s face and shifting so a single finger pressed against John’s lips.

No talking.

John nodded as much as his position would allow, closing his eyes as Sherlock’s mouth tormented the mark on his neck, tilting his head back to give Sherlock more room. Sherlock shifted closer, tangling one long leg with John’s and pressing close, urging John to open his thighs. With minimal prompting, John soon had Sherlock laid across the full length of his body, their groins pressed flush together, gently frotting as Sherlock left a line of fire down one side of his neck. Apparently one bruise wasn’t enough to fulfil Sherlock’s insatiable desire to see him marked, not that John had a problem with this, but he couldn’t stop the moans and whimpers when Sherlock sank his teeth in, darkening the skin to a vicious purple.

 _No talking doesn’t mean no touching,_ John thought, the fingers of one hand curling into Sherlock’s hair, keeping the detective’s mouth against his neck while John’s other hand freely roamed across the smooth skin of Sherlock’s back. When Sherlock nipped at John’s collar bone, John hissed through his teeth and dragged his nails down Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing his hips up and into Sherlock’s, feeling his erection twitch against the body on top of him.

Sherlock groaned, voice still gravelly from sleep, and lifted his head, lips skimming across John’s face until he could press their lips together. The kiss was slow yet gently invasive as Sherlock took control, licking across John’s lips before circling the tip of John’s tongue with his own. John was more than willing to give into it, into Sherlock, letting his body relax as he responded to the movement of Sherlock’s lips against his, swallowing past the taste of sleep and remaining receptive to Sherlock’s direction.

Sensing John’s receptiveness, Sherlock deepened the kiss and curled his arms underneath John’s back, twining the fingers of one hand into John’s hair so he could control the angle of their kisses. John mirrored the placement on his hands on Sherlock’s body, his arousal forgotten in the sensation of Sherlock’s lips and tongue; in the flicker of the detective’s lashes against his face where they were pressed together. He was hyper-aware of the areas where their bodies touched, still warm beneath the tangled sheets. The urgent throb of his cock was gentled in its wake, marginally receding as the desire to service Sherlock took centre-stage. Last night had been about John, or so it felt on his end. He wanted to give something back, yearning to show Sherlock the entirety of his adoration which couldn’t be adequately expressed in words.

It was a small matter of waiting until Sherlock was relaxed enough before using his arms to pull Sherlock to one side, using the momentum of the roll until he was lying on top of Sherlock instead. Sherlock pulled away from the kiss, looking up at John with heat. “John,” he said, his tone questioning as he tightened his grip around John’s back. Clearly he hadn’t been expecting the move. 

John pushed his face into Sherlock’s neck, mouthing at the other man’s pulse point. He barely stopped himself from whimpering, pulling back to cup Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Please,” he murmured, the words almost whispered against Sherlock’s mouth. “Sherlock.”

Eyes dark with arousal, Sherlock pushed at John’s chest until John was seated across Sherlock’s hips, the detective’s erection twitching underneath him. “Show me,” Sherlock murmured, resting his hands on John’s hips, his fingers sliding round to possessively squeeze John’s buttocks. “Show me what you want.”

 _Everything_ , John thought, leaning down to kiss Sherlock, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s tenderly. _I want everything you can give me; that we can give to each other._

Starting from the top, John methodically, but no less worshipfully, worked his way down Sherlock’s body with a freedom he’d never had before. Lips and tongue were pressed to that glorious neck, nuzzling up into the space behind Sherlock’s ear to lavish affection on the patch of skin that never failed to make Sherlock tremble. Dragging himself away, John followed the line of Sherlock’s collar-bones, teeth gently nibbling across a smooth chest to tease at his nipples, so beautifully sensitive and making the man underneath him arch with a surprised groan of pleasure. Gently pushing Sherlock’s hands from his hips, John shifted down, stroking fingers across the skin of Sherlock’s ribs and suppressing a huff of laughter when Sherlock squirmed, ticklish under John’s hands.

Dipping his tongue into Sherlock’s belly-button produced a moan so deep John was anxious to replicate the sound in the normally stoic detective, smoothing his hands down Sherlock’s thighs as he encouraged Sherlock to spread his legs. Sherlock followed John’s direction without any hesitation, watching through lidded eyes as John pressed his nose to Sherlock’s groin and inhaled deeply. God, but John never thought he’d enjoy this so much, the act of taking another man’s erection into his mouth, letting said man curl his fingers into John’s hair so he could thrust at his leisure. The drag of Sherlock’s cock against his tongue, the way the vein throbbed on the underside and the faint tang of pre-come all combined to leave John nearly shaking with lust, relishing the feel of Sherlock’s cock between his lips.

It took more effort than was warranted to pull himself away, soothing the shock of detachment by curling a hand around Sherlock’s erection and stroking, easing the detective’s body through it before crawling up to place his lips close to Sherlock’s ear. “On your front,” he whispered, licking around the shell of Sherlock’s ear just to hear the other man gasp, to feel the bone-deep shudder pass through Sherlock’s slender frame.

The detective nipped at John’s jaw in response, waiting until John pushed himself up before twisting underneath John’s hips, exposing the length of his back to John’s eyes. Soft to the touch, John ran his hands along the different muscles in a small attempt at a massage, easing some stubborn knots with a carefully placed knuckle. Sherlock melted beneath him, small groans of pain/pleasure escaping as the knots gradually released, leaving Sherlock pliant and exactly where John wanted him to be. His mouth followed the paths made by his hands, licking across Sherlock’s skin and placing delicate kisses down the length of Sherlock’s spine until he reached the swell of Sherlock’s buttocks.

Looking up, he noticed Sherlock’s arms were wrapped around a pillow, his face open and relaxed as he clearly waited for John’s next move. _Perfect_.

John gently cupped Sherlock’s glutes, squeezing the muscle under his hands. Each squeeze and pull coaxed Sherlock’s cheeks apart, giving John small glimpses of the detective’s hole; judging by the blush staining his lover’s face, Sherlock was also highly aware of this. Before he could lose his nerve, John dipped his head down and snaked his tongue out, swirling the tip around Sherlock’s opening.

Contrary to what John had thought Sherlock’s reaction would be, Sherlock was decidedly vocal in his appreciation, moaning his pleasure into the pillow and actively spreading his legs so John could rest comfortably between them. Grinning wolfishly, John settled himself down, using his fingers to keep the detective’s buttocks parted so he could almost bury his face between them, lapping delicately at the furled skin which twitched and clenched beneath his touch.

John had never done this to anyone before, but he knew how it felt. Sherlock was a talented lover and had a particular fondness for this act, considering John’s strong reactions to it, and John wanted to make Sherlock feel the same way.

No, that was wrong.

He didn’t want to make Sherlock feel the same as him; stretched out, vulnerable and begging. He wanted Sherlock to feel the opposite of that; wanted to make him feel dominant and powerful, to give him the opportunity to bask in his sub’s adoration.

John had never felt so subservient in his life. Kneeling on the floor was a close second, if not on par with this, but there was something deeply sinful and decadent in pleasuring Sherlock this way. Sherlock tasted clean and fresh, the smell of sandalwood and rosewater rising from his skin, and John realised Sherlock must have gotten up earlier that morning to wash, following the same routine he did back home. The doctor in him was more than thankful for it, Sherlock’s penchant for hygiene, but the animal in him raised its head and growled at the unwanted distraction, urging him to spread Sherlock’s cheeks wider, to force his tongue in deeper until Sherlock was loose and pliant.

When Sherlock began to thrust his hips back into each push of John’s tongue, urgent sounds tearing from his throat, John couldn’t stop his hips from rutting into the sheets, the smooth silk catching against the tip of his cock and growing sticky with precome.

He was forced to stop when his jaw locked, his tongue aching and cramped. Sherlock actually growled when John removed his tongue, his hole slick with saliva and twitching. John pressed a kiss to the dimples on Sherlock’s arse, squeezing his fingers again to appreciate the muscle under his hands before he pushed himself up, crawling his way up Sherlock’s body. Sherlock twisted underneath him until he was on his back, taking John’s face in his hands and pulling him into a bruising kiss.

Unlike the gentle invasion of before, this was all out domination, with Sherlock nipping at John’s lips and sucking on his tongue. “Next time,” the detective murmured when he finally pulled back, eyes lidded with desire, “I’m going to tie you to the bed and sit on your face until you make me come.”

And, _Jesus_ , wasn’t that an image to behold?

John could imagine the press of Sherlock’s buttocks to his face, having to keep his tongue pointed as Sherlock fucked himself on it, his own hands bound to the headboard and his erection as stiff and aching as his tongue would be after Sherlock was finished with him.

John groaned, on the verge of asking Sherlock if they could do it now, he was so fucking ready for it. Against John’s hip, Sherlock’s erection twitched insistently, but Sherlock pushed his hand away when he went to reach for it. “Later,” Sherlock said, meeting John’s questioning look with a smirk. “We need to check the horses after breakfast.”

_Horses? Oh!_

John had completely forgotten about them. “Will they be all right in this snow?” he asked.

“They won’t be let out in the snow, not with the risk of ice, but we can go and see them in the stables,” Sherlock said, pressing a kiss to John’s lips a final time before throwing the covers back. 

John hissed between his teeth when the cool air of the bedroom met his heated flesh. He also hadn’t remembered how bloody cold it was. “Give me some warning before you do that next time,” he said, trying to sound put-out but utterly failing when Sherlock took one of his hands to urge him out of bed.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock asked, pulling John’s body close to his once they were both standing.

“It would make me less cranky,” John replied, pressing his hands into the small of Sherlock’s back. He loved this bit where the sleek smoothness of Sherlock’s back met the swell of his buttocks; loved digging his fingertips into the dip at the top of Sherlock’s arse before sliding them down to grip Sherlock’s glutes when Sherlock was fucking him.

Such lovely, strong glutes.

Head still swimming in the gutter, John pulled Sherlock’s face back to his, swallowing Sherlock’s groan. John couldn’t help but notice that his own erection had barely disappeared, even with the chill of the room, and was steadily finding more reason for being as they kissed. Sherlock’s own body was in a similar state, that familiar flush of arousal sweeping across his chest down towards his sternum when John pulled back to take one of Sherlock’s nipples between his lips again, tracing around the little nub with his tongue.

Strong fingers twined in his hair and tugged his head back up so Sherlock could kiss him again, the detective’s erection nudging into his stomach, and having breakfast was the last thing on John’s mind. “Please tell me you have lube,” he murmured against Sherlock’s lips, smiling when Sherlock gasped against his mouth. He was already envisioning the sweet press of Sherlock’s erection against his hole, the way the rim of his arse opened around the flared head to allow Sherlock entrance. Just the thought of it, the act of Sherlock opening him up for a thorough pounding, was enough to kick his heart rate up.  

“Later,” Sherlock said, kissing John one final time before drawing away and taking all his lovely body heat with him so they could get dressed. John hazily noticed that Sherlock had gone down to the Audi and retrieved their suitcases while he’d been asleep, but the mystery duffel bag wasn’t with their luggage.

It looked like he was going to have to wait for that one.

John reluctantly followed Sherlock’s lead, opening his suitcase and pulling out one of his warmer jumpers and some jeans. Sherlock had also packed warmly for the season, pulling on a pale grey t-shirt and some jeans before pulling a racing green fleece over his head. John couldn’t stop staring; he’d never seen Sherlock wear something this casual, didn’t even realise the detective owned anything like his current attire, but it was a pleasant change. Sherlock still wore the outfit with the same model-like behaviour, somehow enhancing the fit of the clothes, and John wondered if Sherlock had ever put something on that didn’t suit him.

Hell, he’d probably make a burlap sack look good.

Once they’d freshened up in the on-suite, Sherlock pressed a final, lingering kiss to John’s lips before heading down the stairs towards the kitchen, opening the fridge to root around inside it. John followed and leant against the central worktop, the marble surface cool against his hands as he watched Sherlock pull out eggs, spring onions, mushrooms and what looked like spicy chorizo, setting them to one side and taking out a chopping board.

“Omelettes?” John guessed, going to Sherlock’s side to curl an arm around that trim waist.

“A family staple,” Sherlock confirmed, taking out a knife to begin preparing the ingredients. “There’s a cupboard to your right, near the wine rack. I’d like you to get the vegetable oil for me please.”

“Sure.” Going to the cupboard, John fully expected a brand of oil he’d never heard of before, so he couldn’t stop himself from chuckling good-naturedly when he found a bottle of Crisp-N-Dry and some Tesco’s vegetable oil.

“What are you smirking at?” Sherlock asked when John brought over the requested ingredient, watching John out of the corner of his eye as he began slicing the chorizo.

“Just didn’t expect Tesco’s own,” John said, motioning towards the bottle.

“Were you expecting a fancy French name in a flourishing script?” Sherlock asked, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Maybe,” John hedged. “Considering all the bath soaps upstairs.”

“My mother has a fondness for them,” Sherlock said, finishing his chopping and elegantly seizing a frying pan which was hanging above the central worktop, “but the kitchen isn’t where she shines.”

“So where did you learn to cook?” John asked. He’d never seen Sherlock so much as touch the chopping board back home, let alone actually use it.

Sherlock started heating the pan, drizzling a small amount of oil into it and swirling it around in a practised motion before starting to fry the chorizo. “My father taught me.”

 _He must have been bloody brilliant_ , John thought, the tantalising smell of frying sausage filling the kitchen. Sherlock casually tossed the pieces in the pan, waiting until they started to turn crisp on the edges before adding the mushrooms. “Anything I can do?” John asked.

Sherlock tossed the mixture in the pan again before adding the spring onions, mixing them together and setting them to one side. “You can whisk the eggs,” he said. “The bowl is in the second cupboard to your right.” Reaching across, Sherlock passed John the eggs and a whisk from a cutlery drawer. “Four should be enough.”

Under Sherlock’s precise instructions, John beat the eggs and added seasoning, pouring the whole lot into the pan once it had been reheated. Breakfast didn’t take long after that and was soon served in the oak-laden dining room, which just so happened to look out across the full extent of the garden. Finishing his omelette, John left his plate on the table and walked to the glass door separating the dining room from the field of frost-tinted bushes and freshly-laden snow, spending a quiet moment absorbing the beauty in front of him and watching the way the morning light made the snow sparkle like diamonds.

Footsteps followed him and Sherlock’s arms curled around his waist, the detective’s chin resting on John’s left shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” John murmured. “The epitome of Britain on a Christmas card.” All they needed was the customary robin to come bobbing along right about now, but it still didn’t matter when one didn’t appear; it was still gorgeous.

“I’m sure my mother would share your sentiment entirely,” Sherlock drawled, “just as long as she could appreciate said beauty from her drawing room.”

John chuckled, leaning back into Sherlock’s embrace. “Sensible woman.”

“Indeed.” Pulling his arms back, Sherlock took one of John’s hands in his own and tugged him away from the door, a smirk playing on his lips. “Personal feelings aside, my dear doctor, I do believe it’s my duty as host to show you the Holmes household. If you are happy to oblige, of course.”

In answer, John pushed up onto the balls of his feet to kiss that small smirk, more than happy to follow Sherlock’s lead.      

oOo

John leant back against a tree over-hanging the lake, making a point of admiring the view when it just so happened to include Sherlock standing by the bank. He was an imposing figure against all the snow and frost; tall and unmoving, he somehow managed to look imperial even in his casual wear with his hands in his pockets, staring across the lake with unseeing eyes. Sherlock had grown increasingly silent on their long, meandering walk back from the woods to the cottage and John wondered if a large part of his mind had been pre-occupied with the evening ahead.

It wouldn’t have surprised him, considering his own thoughts had been on little else since he first became aware of Sherlock’s intentions, and the mystery contents of the duffel bag were never far from his mind. Knowing that Sherlock was going to hurt him tonight, that he would likely be begging for it…

It was enough to drive a man to distraction.

He had to remind himself that this was the same Sherlock who, just an hour ago, had been laughing at his dry humour. The same man who had spent an inordinate amount of time introducing John to yet another passion, the family’s horses, stroking their necks as he waxed lyrical about their beauty and inherent grace. It was surreal to know that Sherlock was going to strip him bare tonight, hurt him, fuck him and dominate him. He felt his cock stirring at the thought and tried to suppress the anticipation and desire spiking through him, trying to enjoy the beauty of the moment. For God's sake, he was thirty-five years old, but there was something about the thought of being open, vulnerable and raw that turned him into an adolescent teenager fumbling under his first girlfriend’s skirt.

Although he couldn’t remember if trying to get into a girl’s underwear had ever been this exciting.

The crunch of footsteps preceded the detective as he made his way back to John, his cheeks red from the bite of the winter air. “Ready for tonight?” Sherlock asked mildly, bracing his shoulder against the tree so he could wrap an arm around John’s waist.

John didn’t delude himself that there wasn’t more to the question than Sherlock was letting on. Anything less than complete honesty wouldn’t work in their favour here.  “I can't wait for it,” he confessed. “It’s been a challenge to think about anything else, to be honest.” He paused and took a deep breath, trying to get his thoughts in order as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m nervous as well. I don’t really know what to expect.”

Sherlock titled his head, his face quizzical. “Are you talking about the hot wax or the week as a whole?”

 _Trust Sherlock to cut right to the chase_ , John thought, amused. “Well, I was assuming that you would use whatever you have in that duffel bag, but I know we have plans to use the wax as well. I don’t know whether I want to be surprised by what happens tonight or whether the uncertainty of not knowing will add to the experience.” Was he even ready for something like that? Being kept in the dark?

“That’s not unusual,” Sherlock said, tightening the arm he had around John’s waist briefly. “We can discuss the scene in detail once we’re back at the cottage so you’re fully aware of my plans for you. However, there is something I wish to speak with you about before we head back.” Turning towards him, Sherlock leant his weight against the tree and pulled John close to him, resting a hand on John’s left hip when they both settled again. “I spoke of my desires last night in detail and I have yet to hear you voice any opinions on the matter. Have you considered how far you wish for us to take this?”   

The ‘this’ didn’t really need explaining; John still clearly remembered Sherlock’s declarations from last night, still felt the heavy truth of those words settling on his sternum. He would never deny Sherlock that same courtesy. “To be honest, I haven't thought that far ahead,” he said, voice low. “Hell, a few months ago if someone told me I was going to spread my legs and happily let my flatmate bugger me through the mattress I think I might have decked him." He paused and looked down to the lake, lightly caressed the fingers of Sherlock’s hand where it was still curled around his hip. “I do know that I want these hands on me in whatever way I can get them. And I know that what we have together is more than just a convenient leg-over whenever we feel like it.” He shook his head minutely, sliding his hand up Sherlock’s arm to curl his fingers around the detective’s elbow. “Given your confessions last night, am I correct in assuming that you’ve already researched this?”

This time Sherlock looked across the lake, his face contemplative but not broody. It only took a moment for his response. “I see you’ve been practising your deduction skills.”

“I’ve got an excellent tutor,” John quipped, smiling when Sherlock turned to meet his eyes again. “It doesn’t take a detective to know that you’ve been doing your research,” he continued. “Given what’s going to happen tonight.” John himself could only guess at how this was all going to work, having only ever seen instances in real life when BDSM went wrong at the local A and E. The fact that Sherlock had specifically purchased the items required to make wax play a reality meant he had to have researched it before-hand. Anything less than that was against the detective’s very nature and he’d always been nothing less than thorough with anything concerning John’s safety.

Although John still had a difference of opinion when Sherlock decided he needed to drug him for an experiment. The jury was still out on that one. 

“It was a necessary venture to ensure your safety,” Sherlock replied. “Before I tie you to the bed later.”

The image that accompanied the words seared through John’s mind and he was already remembering the sensation of the leather cuff wrapped around his wrist when Sherlock had tested it yesterday. It felt like a lifetime away, that all too brief moment of rightness with the fake fur pressed against the skin of his wrist, the shine of the leather as Sherlock tightened the buckle so the cuff fitted snugly.

Sherlock’s hand moved from his hip and slid down his arm, pushing his jumper back to expose his left wrist. John felt his eyes fluttering shut when Sherlock wrapped his fingers around that bared wrist, stroking his thumb across John’s pulse point, but not tightening his grip. Breathing haggard, John was aware of every movement Sherlock’s fingers, already yearning for them to clench tight. He wanted Sherlock to mark him there, maybe press his own fingers into the bruise later and jerk off to it. No, he wasn’t allowed to do that, but maybe he could show Sherlock. Lie on the bed and hurt himself so Sherlock could see how much he loved it.  

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured, moving his hand away and smiling indulgently when John couldn’t contain his moan. “You’re so ready for this.”

Unable to articulate anything beyond his own moans, John pushed up to nip at Sherlock’s jaw, trying to convey his need in a way that the detective would understand. He’d been ready for this since Sherlock had given him his present, his fingers trembling on the box when he’d first laid eyes on the candles inside it. They were so close to it now, the final culmination; it was difficult to be patient.

Breath becoming just as ragged, it appeared Sherlock was also just as desperate for it. “Let’s go back to the cottage,” the detective said, swallowing past a low groan and cupping John’s face in his hands until John opened his eyes again. “It’s time I took care of you.”

Fingers tingling where they were pressed into the small of Sherlock’s back, John said the only word he could muster. “Please.”

oOo

The evening sun was just starting to set, John noticed absently as he looked out the bathroom window, trying to stall the nerves which fluttered gently in his stomach. Sherlock had already gone to the spare room which now stored the illusive duffel bag and had strictly forbidden him to enter, a command that John had obeyed without question, but the anticipation of the evening’s events was akin to torture. To all outward appearances, John knew he looked calm, but his heart was pounding in his chest, the suspense building until he was almost bursting from it. He could barely hear anything above the sound of his heartbeat, his throat dry and tight; John swallowed reflexively, looking down at his left hand to see it wasn’t trembling at all.

Just a short while ago, Sherlock had told him to go to the shower room, just across from their bedroom, to get himself ready for the scene ahead. John had given himself a thorough scrub and then made sure all the soap was rinsed from his body before towelling himself dry. Said towel was now wrapped around his waist to preserve some of his modesty, not that it was necessary where Sherlock was concerned, but he didn’t feel comfortable standing around naked while he waited for Sherlock to finish whatever he was doing in the main bedroom.

Which was also stupid because it wasn’t like Sherlock hadn’t seen him naked before and John knew he didn’t have anything to hide.

Taking a deep breath of the steamy air around him, John knew this wouldn’t work if he kept ramping up the tension the way he was unconsciously doing. He’d read somewhere that there was a difference between an eager sub and an agitated one and he was pretty sure he was starting to slide into the second category, albeit unintentionally. He almost wished he’d done more reading beforehand, even with the in-depth conversation he’d had with Sherlock after they returned to the cottage, but there was only so much research he could take before it became physically compromising. The last time he’d tried to read about wax play, shortly after Sherlock had given him his present, he’d ended up pressing the heel of one hand against his groin in an effort to will his erection away. He’d been so close to disobeying Sherlock’s order, had almost been at the point of wanking himself off for a spectacular orgasm, but he’d resisted and the information he’d read had helped him understand a little bit of the scene now looming in front of him.

He had to credit Sherlock’s research, for literally nothing had been left to chance during their conversation earlier; the detective had even purchased a small fire extinguisher and was using easy to remove snap-hooks on the restraints in case of an emergency. The preparation involved had been extensive on the detective’s part and that only served to increase John’s desire for him and for the scene they were about to enter. Rather than all the safety being a turn-off, John recognised that it was Sherlock’s way of letting him know he had the freedom he needed to express himself in his pain. He could lose himself in it knowing everything was being taken care of.  

The bathroom door opened, jostling him from his thoughts, and Sherlock came inside, dressed once again in his normal garb; a tight-fitting crimson shirt that John’s fingers itched to unbutton, along with his dress trousers. He’d never seen Sherlock in crimson before, didn’t even realise the man owned this colour, and it was certainly a fetching piece of attire. The sleeves were rolled back up to Sherlock’s elbows and an extra button had been left undone near the top, which had to be intentional on Sherlock’s part because John was instantly drawn to the long expanse of pale skin left exposed.

John forced himself to stay still, letting his shoulders relax as though he had water pouring off of them and trailing down his arms. Posture upright, he watched as Sherlock headed to the sink and began to run the water, checking the temperature and leaving it to fill the basin.

Once the sink was filled, Sherlock turned off the water and took a razor and some shaving gel from the overhead cabinet, motioning John over to him once he’d put them down. “Come here.”

Swallowing again, John went over on feet that felt like lead weights, concentrating on his breathing when Sherlock gestured for him to stop.

“We both know what this is about,” the detective murmured, his hands gently seizing the top of John’s towel, “but it’s helpful to have a small reminder in this case. As part of your preparation, we’ve already ascertained that wax removal from hair can be… difficult, to say the least. You can decide later on if that’s part of the play you want to experience, however, for a first time, I believe we should try it this way to start with. Do you have any questions?”

John shook his head, hyper-aware of Sherlock’s hands at his waistline. “No, no questions,” he said, feeling a little more at ease when his voice came out steady.

“Good.”

With barely any pressure, Sherlock took the towel from him, allowing it to pool on the floor around John’s feet. John’s erection hadn’t dwindled despite his nerves and Sherlock eyed it appreciatively, stroking the tip of one finger around the flushed head. The touch was fleeting and soon Sherlock was spraying shaving gel into one hand, coaxing it to a small lather and spreading it over John’s chest hair.

Rinsing the razor in the warm water, the detective carefully followed the grain on John’s chest, using small, rhythmic strokes to clear the hair as efficiently as possible. John kept his breathing slow and deep, his entire universe narrowing down to the feel of the blades on his chest and the rush of warm air on newly bared skin.

Sherlock didn’t speak throughout the whole process, his concentration evident when he guided the razor around John’s nipples, already erect and perky. He must have liked what he saw, given the small pinch he gave each one once it was free of hair; the ache in John’s already throbbing cock flared insistently at the small tendrils of pain and John couldn’t stop his breath from hitching.

John hadn’t been sure how far Sherlock was going to take the wax play before their talk earlier, although he’d thought about it, the places on his body Sherlock could use. Talking about it didn’t lessen the thrill of it though and he still gasped aloud when Sherlock knelt down in front of him to begin shaving around his groin, giving him a clear instruction to keep still. Legs locked at his knees, John felt his fingers clench and release with each swipe of those blades so close to his cock, which had grown impossibly harder with each movement of Sherlock’s hand.

“Don’t move,” Sherlock said, his tone gentle but firm, and John gave him a shaky nod when Sherlock looked for visual confirmation. Taking one of John’s hands, he got John to hold his erection up so it was pressed against his stomach and then slathered more shaving gel over John’s balls.

_Oh Christ…_

Inhaling sharply, John tried to remember to breathe when Sherlock began to shave the hair from his testicles, each stroke of the blade making his cock throb. Every sense had narrowed down to the faint drag of the metal on his skin, his ears filled with the sound of the razor as Sherlock guided it over his sac, rinsing the blade in the water in between strokes. Feeling the pulses in his dick between his fingers, John had the distinct impression that he shouldn’t be finding this as hot as he was, but when it was Sherlock between his legs, using an almost unbearably sharp tool somewhere as impossibly sensitive as _right there, God, Sherlock_ …

John could readily admit that he was surprised he hadn’t come yet.

Draining the water in the sink, Sherlock rinsed a soft cloth in another lot of warm water and began to wipe the remaining shaving gel from around John’s groin, paying special attention to John’s testicles. John let go of his cock to give Sherlock better access and, when he dared to look down, the detective’s pupils had blown wide, his irises almost eclipsed by the naked hunger on his face. Looking at his own body, John thought his own cock appeared larger, but he knew it was only because the hair had been shaved away. Still, it did a man’s ego proud when he could admire the length and girth of his anatomy, especially when his lover was looking as animalistic as Sherlock was right now. 

Leaning forward with a low groan, almost like he couldn't resist it, Sherlock swiped a hot, wet tongue over the bared skin of John’s testicles, forcing a moan from the depths of John’s chest when the resulting sensation made his cock leak a thin tendril of sticky precome.  The detective didn't stop, opening his mouth to suck at one of John's balls, holding it between his lips so he could flick his tongue over it; the vocalisations of his own pleasure vibrated through John's sac, nearly causing John's knees to buckle.   

John had the impossible thought that he could come like this, just from the feel of Sherlock tea-bagging him. The thought alone was enough at this point, hurling him perilously close to the edge and he quickly said, “ _Warten_ ,” his relief palpable when Sherlock moved away without any hesitation. Given some space, John took deep, calming breaths, coaxing himself back from the edge by sheer force of will, reminding himself that he hadn’t been given permission, not yet. Remaining on his knees, Sherlock watched his progress with a patience John himself would have found difficult to muster, simply waiting for John to get himself back into a headspace where he could finish what he was doing.

The urgency to come had receded somewhat, still bubbling at the base of John’s spine, but Sherlock’s actions had also tempered his desire to orgasm in a good way. The detective had obeyed the safe word without question, John’s request for a break from _too much_ fulfilled without any huffs of impatience or frowns. It felt good to see that Sherlock was as dedicated to this as John was, although he had never been given any reason to doubt Sherlock’s intentions, but the physical manifestation of that commitment made something warm uncurl in John’s chest.

When the safe words had first been introduced, John had felt a bit silly picking them and a lot out of his depth. The only thing he’d been thinking at the time was why he would ever put himself in a situation where they had to be used; standing here, now, he realised they were a necessary part of what made this, to use the term, safe, sane and consensual.

“I’m all right,” John said after a moment, the tension in his abdomen gradually relaxing. His cock still throbbed, twitching at the man kneeling in front of him; a thick, sordid finger saying, _I’m right here! Come play with me_ , but Sherlock wasn’t looking at it.

Sherlock nodded, a small inclination of his head, and pressed a final, lingering kiss to John’s sac before getting to his feet, rinsing the flannel and wiping the gel from John’s chest and abdomen. “You’re doing so well,” he murmured, hanging the cloth over the edge of the sink so he could take John’s wrists into his hands. “I’m very pleased with you.”

John sighed in pleasure, allowing himself to feel the ache when Sherlock tightened his grip. He was sure the look on his face was something close to euphoric and it felt like they hadn’t even started yet.

Without releasing his wrists, Sherlock guided them back towards the main bedroom, nudging the partially open door with one foot. John resisted the temptation to look around when they crossed the threshold, maintaining eye contact with Sherlock as the detective led him to one side of the bed. The overhead lights were switched off, but John could see the softer glow of the bedside lamps illuminating the room in his peripheral vision; because their range was limited, the effect was softer as a result, almost like stepping into a warm bath. Sherlock had also heated the room previously to stop him from getting cold, although John didn’t think that would be an issue for much longer.

He let the thought wash over him, acknowledging it before pushing it to one side. It wasn’t needed here, not now.  

“Stand here and keep your eyes lowered,” Sherlock said, voice quiet but no less commanding. 

John did as asked, already getting into the desired position Sherlock favoured and crossing his hands in front of him when Sherlock released them. He kept eyes lowered, focussing on open button in Sherlock’s shirt and letting his body relax whilst keeping his posture strong. Sherlock hummed his approval, stroking the backs of his fingers across one of John’s wrists before walking out of John’s line of sight, his bare feet soft on the carpeted floor.

The faint click of a metal clasp pierced through John’s awareness and he felt his body tense for a brief moment when he realised which box Sherlock had opened. He told himself to be patient, attempting to focus on his breathing to keep himself calm. He kept his hands clenched, but not rigid. In his chest, his heart throbbed.   

Sherlock’s footfalls preceded him and the detective came back into John’s line of sight; in his hands, he held the four cuffs to be fastened around John’s wrists and ankles and three chains, their snap hooks already attached and ready for use. John could barely keep his eyes off them.

Placing them on the bedside table, Sherlock moved John to the bed, guiding him until John was stretched out on his back with his hands by his sides. Sherlock had already laid out a large black sheet which covered the whole bed, cool under John’s back; he tried not to think about the image he presented, how his naked body looked against the darkness of the fabric.

Sherlock reached for the first cuff, staying on John’s left side and undoing the buckle. The fake fur lining was just as soft as John remembered when Sherlock wrapped the cuff around his wrist, doing up the buckle until it was at the desired tightness. Just the same as before; tight enough to keep it in place, but not enough to cut off circulation.

Once secured, Sherlock put John’s hand back down and, taking the cuffs with him, moved around the bed so each one could be put on John with the same gentle preciseness as the first. When the final cuff was tightened, Sherlock came back to the bedside table and took the chains, going to the foot of the bed and attaching one of them to the D link on John’s right ankle. The footboard had the same decorative design as the headboard, the dark grey metal curving into twists and curls, which meant it was easy for Sherlock to wrap the chain around one of those oh-so-useful loops and secure the other snap hook to a link along the chain’s length.

It was so beautifully simple. 

John tested the chain gently once Sherlock let go, noting how much give he had. It wasn’t much, but as this was their first bondage scene, Sherlock hadn’t wanted to overwhelm him by restraining him completely. The small movement he had didn’t lessen the tension, regardless of intent, and the noise the chain made when he so much as twitched made him flush, his breath hitching.

The same was done for his other ankle and then Sherlock came around to John’s right, holding the last chain in his hands. John already knew what it was Sherlock wanted to do, but he still waited for Sherlock’s direction, holding still when Sherlock attached the snap hook on his wrist cuff and then drawing John’s arm up so he could loop the chain around a curl in the headboard. John lifted his left hand to assist, closing his eyes when he felt Sherlock’s body heat on his face, breathing in the other man’s scent as Sherlock attached the chain to his left cuff.     

_Oh God…_

Sherlock smoothed a hand down John’s heaving chest, the calluses on his fingers more pronounced on hairless skin. The touch was almost reverential and definitely possessive, no doubt admiring the image John made, stopping when his fingers rested on John’s sternum. Measuring John’s breaths, his heartbeat and the flush on his skin, taking it all in.  

John looked down at his own body, his head thumping back on the pillow the moment he so much as glanced at the cuffs on his ankles, his blush deepening until he could feel the tips of his ears flare with heat. He pulled at the chain above his head, looking up at the leather around his wrists with a mixture of awe and lust, unable to quite believe that this was actually happening.

Sherlock took his hand from John’s chest and pulled out the final piece needed to make John’s fantasy a reality, the silk blindfold unrolling until it was draped in the detective’s hands, shimmering in the light from the lamps. Reaching forward, he ran his fingers over John’s eyes to close them, placing the blindfold over them and gently sliding his hands around the back of John’s head to tie a knot.

John lifted his head up to give Sherlock room, panting slightly when the silk completely eliminated his sight. He’d experienced this before, back at the flat when Sherlock had spanked him across the table in the living room, so it wasn’t a complete shock, yet the circumstances were vastly different now. The scarf used before hadn’t been discussed, not that it hadn’t worked out in the end because the pain-play had been limited to sensations that John already had experience with, albeit with different methods on Sherlock’s part.

This time, they were both venturing into unknown territory.

Sherlock moved the knot from the back of John’s head to one side, allowing him to rest without it digging into him. John relaxed back into the pillows, feeling the tension in the muscles of his arms where they were chained above his head, breathing into it and letting the pressure wash over him until he could finally release it, the chain clinking as it held his arms with ease.

It was the moment Sherlock seemed to have been waiting for, his hand returning to John’s sternum, a carefully chosen, neutral place on John’s body, fingers stroking his skin until he reached John’s abdomen. John squirmed under the touch, his stomach muscles ticklish, gasping when Sherlock changed tact and curled his fingers around John’s hip bone, the smooth motion only halting when the detective’s fingers came to rest on the skin of John’s inner thigh.

John exhaled deeply when Sherlock introduced his nails, lightly dragging the tips over that sensitive place. Moved away, shifting from the bed and leaving John guessing at where he was, coming into contact again when Sherlock dug a thumb into the arch of John’s right foot, pressing up into it and coaxing the tightness to release. John hissed between his teeth, jerking against the restraints at the unfamiliar touch, panting even as Sherlock soothed him.

“Relax into it,” Sherlock murmured. “Accept it, John. Let it take you.”

John listened to Sherlock’s voice, the deep tenor so more prominent when he couldn’t see anything, his other senses heightening with the loss of his sight. That same voice made the next touch easier, the cruel twist of Sherlock’s fingers into his right nipple making him arch, choking on a moan when Sherlock plucked at it. Couldn’t stop himself from moaning outright when Sherlock’s mouth took the place of his fingers, sucking on the abused nub and flicking it with his tongue.

Nothing Sherlock was doing to him lasted nearly as long as John was wishing for, what with the detective scratching and pinching at various parts of his body but not lingering at a single spot. He trembled against his bonds when Sherlock left his other nipple alone and introduced the slickness of a lubed finger around the rim of his anus, stroking the wrinkled skin in a circular motion before pushing in. The chains clanked again when John tried to spread his legs wider, give Sherlock more room, and felt a small jolt of frustration when he realised he couldn’t spread his legs any wider than they were. Smiled when the tease of it all settled at the base of his spine, a deep, churning sensation that refused to go away.

Sherlock swirled his finger inside, once, twice, then removed his hand; John tried not to kick his hips up, chasing that slim finger, already yearning to be filled. The flick of a cap lid preceded a quiet stillness where John couldn’t hear anything beyond his own breathing, which very quickly turned laboured when he felt something press at the entrance to his body, something cool and circular that decidedly _wasn’t_ Sherlock’s fingers.

Gently, persistently, that small circle pressed inexorably into him, his rim opening around the slicked object, coated with lubricant to make the penetration easier. John couldn’t stop writhing when the first part of the toy, it had to be a toy, came to rest inside him, his muscles already clenching around it.

“You can probably guess what this is, can’t you.”

John lifted his head instinctually to look towards Sherlock’s voice, groaning when he remembered the blindfold and when Sherlock decided to push the toy deeper. He felt his body opening again around a larger bead than the first, gasping as his muscles stretched to accommodate the slightly bigger change in diameter.

_Oh my God..._

Sherlock was using an anal beaded toy. He had to be.

The only question running through John’s mind was why they hadn’t thought to use one before because _bloody hell_ ; _do that again, Sherlock please!_

Sherlock must have been brushing up on his telepathy because he followed John’s mental direction perfectly, withdrawing the toy completely, just enough for John to feel the emptiness inside him before pushing it back in, this time to the third bead on the toy. John arched into it, unable to keep still when Sherlock twisted the toy inside his passage, rotating it and then pressing forward again and again, until John’s entire world had narrowed down to the ache and stretch inside him.

“How many is that, John?”

 _God, how many had it been?_ He’d gotten lost in it, the pull and press of the ridges inside him, trying to remember and mewling when Sherlock pulled on the toy so a bead slid out of him, leaving him yearning for its return. John’s mouth stuttered around a word, almost unable to fathom anything articulate, but needing that toy back inside him. Wanting to feel the burn of it in his arse and the glorious fullness. “F-f-five.”

“Very good, John. You can guess what comes next, can’t you.”

John didn’t have time to answer, didn’t have the air in his lungs because Sherlock chose that moment to lick a long stripe up his cock with his tongue, using the distraction to push the final, largest bead into him. He cried out sharply at the feel of Sherlock’s mouth on him, unable to stop his hips from lifting off the bed to chase that hot wetness and hissing at the intensity of the stretch until his body came to rest on the mattress again, arse clenching and spasming around the thickest part of the toy. Moaning on an exhale, John heard his chains rattling around him, writhing in a confused maelstrom of too much and not enough; Jesus, they hadn’t even gotten to the hot wax yet and he was already lost.   

“God, John, you should see yourself.” The breathy quality of Sherlock’s voice had everything in it John could’ve hoped for and he unconsciously stilled himself, his own vocalisations just as husky when Sherlock rewarded him with a long, wet suck on his cock, dipping his tongue into his leaking slit on the withdrawal before pulling away.  

John felt the bed shift when Sherlock pushed himself off of it, already having an inkling of what Sherlock was going to do next, but it didn’t matter. He was edging his way into pleasantly fuzzy, relaxing into it with the scattered notes of pain on his skin mingling together. Not even the scratch of a match disrupted it, his gradual slip into subspace, but he could imagine it now; the wax beginning to pool at the wick of the candle, the bright glow of the flame illuminating Sherlock’s face as footsteps came back towards him. The fabric under his back was damp with sweat at the thought of that wax landing on his bare skin and he suddenly remembered the video of the man having red wax dripped along his thighs, remembered the noises he’d made as the heat made contact with his skin.

Sherlock’s hand made contact with John’s body, gently stroking over his stomach and chest, caressing his skin and dipping into the hollow at the base of his throat. Sherlock didn’t say anything, not even to ask John if he was ready for this (which was stupid really because they both knew he wouldn’t even be here if he wasn’t), and that hand gradually lifted away, replaced with a single drop of liquid heat in the centre of John’s chest.     

“Oh  _God…”_

John couldn’t help himself, unprepared for the intensity of it, the burn grabbing his attention and making it flare. Unlike the times when he’d accidentally burned himself on the hob in their kitchen, there wasn’t any way for him to escape this. He could only lie back and take it, keenly aware of the way the wax began to cool and harden against his skin, already hoping for another one just like that,  _please, Sherlock_ ,  _do that again-_

Another drop, this time on his sternum, and then another, slowly leading a trail down to his belly button until there were six drops in total. John groaned with each one, twisting on the sheets but unable to move away from it, not wanting to, but it was so hard and it hurt, but he  _wanted_ it.

He cried out sharply when Sherlock allowed a drop of wax to land on the skin around his right hip, gravity dragging the wax down so it formed a long, thin line to the sheet underneath him. Different again to the drops which had landed on his chest and stomach, having the wax trail across his body splintered his awareness, trying to alternately focus on where the wax was and where it was going. He felt his chest heaving when Sherlock followed the same pattern on his left hip, moving up John’s body so the wax had drawn lines over his rib cage on both sides; couldn’t stop a small smile when he realised it had been Sherlock’s intention, following his ribs in a wax model.    

He jerked against his bonds, unable to stifle his moans when Sherlock let the wax fall on his chest again, the drips making circles around his nipples and splashing the swollen nubs with it until Sherlock began to coat his nipples directly, slowly, letting him feel each drip until they were throbbing. Well trained as it was, his cock was already aching between his legs at the fire on his nipples, his balls drawn up tight to his body and waiting for Sherlock’s attention.

_God, Sherlock, please let me come…_

Without warning, he felt wax drip on the inside of his left thigh, so close to his balls that he instinctively tried to move away from the burn even as he loved it, his voice rough in his throat as his muscles tensed against it. Barely had time to breathe before Sherlock allowed a small drop to hit one of his balls, nothing between him and the wax, nothing to soften the blow, his shout echoing around him. God, it  _hurt_ , like nothing else he’d ever experienced, but his cock was throbbing and twitching, his body shuddering when Sherlock began to coat his testicles with it, letting each drop cool before laying another, following the cadence of John’s moans until it felt like his entire sac was covered with it. 

John moaned again when Sherlock stopped (why was he stopping, he can’t, not yet), but he couldn’t even remember why he’d been screaming in the first place, not when it felt this good. Surely he’d been moaning all along, right? He had the fleeting impression Sherlock was playing him as well as he played his violin, crying out and writhing under Sherlock’s expert fingers; did it matter what noise he made when it was the sound Sherlock desired?  

Still, he was unprepared for the heat of the wax when it dripped at the base of his cock, moaning long and loud when Sherlock began to follow the large vein, coating it with liquid fire. His foreskin had completely pulled back, exposing his cock-head for Sherlock’s use, and he cried out again, nearly screamed when Sherlock allowed a larger pool of wax to fall, letting it dribble over the head and the slit of his erection.

His arms and legs pulled against the cuffs tightly as his body reacted to the pain, not to escape, but his body was unable to differentiate between the twin assaults of pain and pleasure, as if trying to say _Oh God, more_  and  _please stop_.

It surprised him that he hadn’t strained a muscle, but it didn’t matter. His mind was  _gone_. 

For the first time since they’d started, John experienced not just the handing over of his body but also his mind, sunk into a submission so intense that he felt surrounded on all sides and in all ways with Sherlock _._ His eyes grew wet with tears under the cover of his blindfold, one finding its way out through a gap in the silk as he let go completely, overwhelmed and so very, very grateful.

Lingering moments after his scream _,_ he felt his cock begin to pulsate, a deep throbbing centring on his balls and erupting from the tip of his cock, a hot, wet fluid on his stomach, following the rhythm of his contractions, his arse clenching around the toy inside of him, toes curling and chest heaving as his breath came in choked sobs.  _Oh God, Oh God…_

He was actually _coming_ from it, all over himself, just from the wax alone.

Long minutes passed, his own breaths echoing in his ears as his cock finally came to rest against his stomach. “Sorry…” he gasped, his body sinking into the sheet beneath him. “Didn’t have permission…”

Sherlock’s shush drifted through to him as he felt a warm hand stroke across his chest, soothing him as John felt warm breath on his face. Sherlock’s fragrance seemed to offer its own comfort as the detective’s tongue licked the tear on John’s cheek, felt the warmth of Sherlock’s breath against his ear. “You did,” Sherlock murmured. “I ordered you to let it take you and you did, without question. I’m very pleased with you, John.”

John sobbed once, the sound swallowed by Sherlock’s mouth when he pressed their lips together, trying to convey his relief in the kiss. Everything was good. Better than good because Sherlock wasn’t disappointed with him; was the complete opposite of that.   

Still trying to get his breath back, he heard the rustle of clothes as Sherlock disrobed. He felt the chains on his ankles being released, leaving the cuffs they were. Gasped into a pillow when the toy was pulled from him so Sherlock could move between his legs, warm hands gripping his thighs just under his knees and pushing up, tilting John’s hips till his knees almost touched his chest. Sherlock let go of one thigh and the heat of that hand came up to John’s face, the thumb stroking his jaw tenderly, waiting patiently for John to come back to himself.

John imagined Sherlock looking down on him, at the wax splashed all over his body, undeniable proof of how Sherlock had hurt him. Almost in direct contrast, his come was cooling on his abdomen and chest, evidence of how Sherlock had pleasured him. The image jarred in his head, opposite ends of the scale meeting harmoniously in Sherlock’s actions and his own reactions. It was perfect in its simplicity. 

Especially when Sherlock pushed his bare cock against John’s hole, sinking in with barely any resistance. John was grateful for the toy which had readied him for the intrusion, but the accompanying stretch and the knowledge that it was Sherlock’s flesh piercing him still made him gasp in a need that no toy would ever be able to satisfy. John felt his hips twitch, oversensitive, and he moaned brokenly when Sherlock began to thrust, each movement of Sherlock’s cock inside him pushing him deeper into subspace until his entire universe had reduced to the feel of being fucked, welcoming Sherlock into his body again and again.

Sherlock shifted again, leaning all his weight on one hand so he could drag his fingers down the centre of John’s chest, pulling the wax free and curling down to lick at the reddened skin. Gently pulled the wax from one of John’s nipples so he could flick at it with his tongue, his groan resonating when John’s body clenched around his cock in reaction, overstimulated but completely receptive to Sherlock’s will.

John wanted to pull Sherlock’s mouth back to his nipple, yearned to intensify the ache in the small nub even though he knew how much it was going to hurt later, using his thighs to pull Sherlock’s cock in again and again, his breathless exhalations increasing when Sherlock began to quicken his pace. The steady  _slap, slap_  of the detective’s hips against his buttocks was hypnotic and beautiful and he never wanted it to stop, wanted Sherlock to keep using his body forever, craving the other man’s cock with a passion that felt like it would never be quenched.

Thankfully, Sherlock was a man of many talents, and he drew out his own pleasure until they were both sweating; until John’s cock had stiffened against his belly again, sore and throbbing. John knew he didn’t have it in him for a second go, far too sensitive for it, but he loved the feeling of his cock bobbing between his legs, his arousal strong enough in Sherlock’s arms that it didn’t matter whether he came or not. 

It felt like hours had passed when Sherlock began to moan with every thrust, making short, sharp jabs into John’s body. His thick cockhead pulled at John’s swollen rim every time it withdrew, taking his pleasure in John’s tight heat. The bed shook with every brutal thrust until finally Sherlock buried himself to the hilt, his hips slammed into John’s buttocks one last time, his cock swelling with his release. His voice was barely a husky whisper as he spoke John’s name, his entire body shuddering with orgasm, gasping John’s name over and over as his cock pulsed thickly inside him. John moaned with him, his body clenching in sympathy around Sherlock’s erection which only made the detective groan and shudder against him.

God, it was beautiful.

Panting in the aftermath, Sherlock pressed himself close to John, keeping his softening cock inside for as long as possible. John curled his legs around Sherlock’s waist, keeping his shifting to a minimum as he luxuriated in the feeling of Sherlock surrounding him, pressing his mouth to whatever piece of skin he could reach in his adoration. He could taste the sweat on Sherlock’s skin, finding his way to Sherlock’s neck and nuzzling into it like an overgrown cat, nearly purring with satisfaction.

Eventually Sherlock softened enough that he slipped out of John’s body despite their protests and Sherlock pulled back from John’s hips, letting him rest his legs on the mattress. John groaned when overstretched muscles complained, sighing when Sherlock went to the headboard and undid the snap hooks on his wrists, again leaving the cuffs in place. John gently tested the muscles in his arms, feeling the bed dip on one side and automatically rolling towards it, Sherlock’s arms wrapping around him to hold him close. 

He felt the trickle of Sherlock’s release drip from his hole, possession thrumming through John’s body in every sense of the word and leaving him reluctant to surface from its grip. Sherlock’s arms tightened around him, almost as though he’d read John’s mind as John lay trembling, recalling what had been done to him and how much he enjoyed it, how much Sherlockhad enjoyed it. Sherlock’s fingers were gentle as they stroked his hair, his other hand moving in soothing circles around his back. “It’s all right, John,” he murmured, pressing his lips to John’s hairline. “Everything is just as it should be.”

This is what total submission is meant to feel like, John thought abstractly as he was held safe and secure in his Dom’s arms. It was far more powerful and engulfing than he’d previously given it credit, beginning to understand on a visceral level what Sherlock had been saying to him all along. He surrendered to the feeling and felt the trembling in his body subside, his breathing returning to normal as he slowly gained awareness of his surroundings. Knowing Sherlock would be waiting for him, as patient and gentle as he had ever been.

It was only after John reached some semblance of normality that Sherlock pulled back to kiss him, pushing him back until he was lying on the sheet as before. John made no move to remove the blindfold, sighing contentedly when he felt Sherlock move to retrieve something from the bedside table, feeling slightly ticklish when Sherlock began to remove the cooled wax from his body with his fingers, soothing each reddened area with burn cream that had been kept cold in the fridge beforehand. 

Aftercare complete, Sherlock pulled John into his arms again, adjusting their position so he was sprawled aross Sherlock’s chest while the detective settled with his back to the headboard, the pillows protecting his back from the curls in the metal. John wondered if this was what bliss was meant to feel like, burying his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and breathing him in.  

He still vaguely felt like he was floating inside his own head and his awareness was still very much on Sherlock’s touch, the feel of the man breathing under his cheek. It was as if the rest of the world didn’t exist and John was perfectly happy in that moment for it to remain that way. Sherlock sat with his own head inclined towards John’s, rewarding him with soft kisses over his face and hair, hands moving languidly to stroke across John’s arms and back. John never wanted it to end.

Some moments later, Sherlock finally undid the knot around the blindfold and removed it. John laid quietly, eyes still closed, not ready to come back to the real world. Sherlock chuckled even as his lips kissed each eyelid in turn, encouraging them to open. John was as helpless to resist Sherlock’s beckoning as he ever was, opening his eyes to lock them with Sherlock’s. Long fingers curled under his chin, guiding him so Sherlock could take his mouth in another kiss, slow and sensual against the candlelight which continued to flicker around them. “How do you feel?” Sherlock asked gently after he pulled back, stroking a hand through John’s hair.

It took a moment for John to formulate his answer, still floating pleasantly as he was inside his own head, but there was only one thing he wanted to say. “When can we do that again?”

Sherlock chuckled, deep and throaty; John wanted to spread that chuckle on the bed and roll around in it, but he settled for kissing Sherlock’s wrist where it was close to his face instead. “When we’re both ready for it,” Sherlock said, lying down next to him again and pulling John into his arms.

John smiled, willingly following Sherlock’s lead. The detective was truly adept at reminding him that this was a two way street; as much as he was the one having the pain inflicted on him, it wasn’t only his own mental and physical state that had to be considered. Sherlock had to be right in himself as well for any scene to work, no matter how small; he was the inflictor, the man in charge, so to speak, but they were in this together, right from the word Go. 

That didn’t stop John from voicing his next query: “So when am I going to see what’s in that duffel bag of yours?”

Sherlock’s answering smile didn’t tell him anything, but that was okay. John knew he’d find out sooner or later.

When they were both ready.          

 _To be continued_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! 
> 
> On a small note, I did spend quite a lot of time reading and watching as much stuff about hot wax play as possible to make sure I got it right *fingers-crossed* 
> 
> As always, this is a fantasy first and foremost, but if even the slightest detail is something that wouldn't be condoned in a real-life BDSM scene, please let me know. I value your critique and will happily make adjustments to ensure that this story is as Safe, Sane and Consensual as possible.
> 
> Much love! 
> 
> Darkangel1211 xxx


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